Projects

Projects

They fired me for a mental illness.

I worked for more than a year in Fortis Games.
2 months ago I Confessed my mental illness to a colleague in a private message.
Later I found out he had forwarded it to my superior.
When I was told they wanted to “part ways,” I collapsed.
I entered a severe bipolar episode and started saying random things,
impulsive, chaotic — like anyone in a breakdown.

No conversation. No hearing. No support.
I was simply sent home.

From that moment, everything collapsed.
I spiraled into addiction, self-harm, hospitalization — twice.

archive of pain 57

Police at my door. Psychiatric ward. Total isolation.
While the people I worked with for years said nothing.
Not one call. Not one message.
Just silence.

Then they officially fired me.
Not for something I did.
But for something I am.

I live with bipolar disorder.
And in a moment of severe mental crisis, I said something frightening —
Not criminal. Not dangerous.
Just honest.

What followed was punishment.
Not care.
Not understanding.
Punishment.

I lost my job.
My stability.
Almost my life.

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All I did was speak up.
And no one was there to catch me when I fell.

Some stories that I am putting together now after the last time called the police on me after the gallery. Because. Now I just found out a new way I am fucked up now.

This justhappened to me half an hour ago and it is my translated facebook porst. It is now 7:36 PM and its 9th of April. And as am writing the intro I heard more sirens and started panicking

God, what new trauma
Hearing any ambulance siren gives me strong arrhythmia. What trauma Fortis caused me. I’m shaking, damn it. I won’t forgive them. I won’t forgive them.
Not even Claudiu, who got upset because my parents didn’t insist I stay 30 days at Obregia. And no matter how much I told them how bad it was, the answer was always the same: “It’s for your own good.”
Here’s the “good”… and now my heart skips—once per second, then once every three, then every two. From the siren. I could die just from hearing an ambulance.
How is that even possible? And it’s also thanks to my family. Sometimes it even feels like everything turns darker for a moment.
You have no idea what Obregia means. None.
And he wanted me to stay there for 30 days. How could I forgive him for what he left me with? How? To deepen my trauma even more? Damn it, I was ready to jump off the balcony from the 3rd floor.
Three is lucky anyway.

It’ll take me half an hour to calm down, because the sirens were just outside on the street. I got dressed, put everything on, took my phone. I was either going to jump to another balcony or jump down.

To die one day just because I hear a siren.
And no matter what they said, they claimed they wanted to “save” me.
Well then, my heart stops—an easy death.

My only goal in life now is this: Fortis must pay.
I’m not looking for a job. I’ll give the house to my parents so no bank or anyone else can take it.
Because when you have nothing left to lose, only then can you win against a company that has everything to lose.

And I shouted to the doctors at Obregia that it was hurting me, that it was horrible, that I could feel the evil.
And they told me it was for my own good.

And my addiction to nose drops — I went two days without them. That feeling of dry mouth and suffocation is the most unbearable torment for me.
And they didn’t give me the drops, or maybe they didn’t have them. And I told them — I need them, I’m suffering badly.

And when I went on a hunger strike, they forcibly put me on IV fluids — for someone whose veins were no longer usable. They poked and searched, and couldn’t find a vein, and poked again, and it hurt… and it hurt… and they poked again.
Then they moved to my palm, trying to put the IV in one of those tiny veins in the thumb. Can you imagine how that was?

Same thing the last time, the third time — when Fortis, from outside the country, called the police because they interpreted something as suicidal.
And now, alongside Obregia, there might even be criminal charges.
Cumulatively, the leadership from two and a half years ago — what’s coming could mean prison.
No, I’m not certain. But after I received the news of being fired, I went through a state of fear, then total euphoria, then clarity, then substances, then police, then a house search, then to the station, then to Obregia — where I told them I’d done coke, but I was fine.
By the time I got there, I had calmed down — there was still a bit of the substance left in my system.
They said: You still seem a little manic.
I said it’s from that. And anyway, in that manic state I created the best projects of my life. That’s what fuels me. That’s when I’m creative — when I’m manic.
But now I’m not.

They said: You still need to stay here for a while.
Then came that whole humiliating and dehumanizing process: stripping down, taking everything away, putting on the hospital gown and slippers, having to ask for a light to smoke, no phone, and again they had lost the nose drops.

And I ended up in the ward. That sickly smell. Those deformed people. The harshness with which some patients are treated. The way they all looked like zombies.
It was awful from the very start.

I managed to stay strong and get out of the victim mindset, to stand tall, demand my rights, look for doctors who had the face of a normal person and could be reasoned with.
I told them a major mistake had been made at my admission. That they had confused a substance which had already worn off — I had even slept for an hour — with bipolar disorder.
And I was committed for that.

Eventually, a panel was formed, and there was a proper and normal hearing. And after they called home, I managed to get released right away.

But now, when I hear sirens close to my building’s entrance, the palpitations begin. The arrhythmia. The trembling.
And the last time it happened, I quickly got dressed, took my phone and everything — so that if I heard knocking on the door, I’d jump onto the balcony and try to reach the neighbor’s or hide somehow.
I live on the 3rd floor. I’d prefer a regular hospital, or at this point, I don’t even care.
My heart jumps when my cat hits the floor three times — it sounds like that knocking on the door.

That was after the third time I was committed to the psych ward.
And this time, again, the police were called by Fortis — from outside the country.