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TwitThisTrying to Disappear
He worries all the time. What if I'm too slow? What if the guys at work are just pretending to like me? What if I forget and put the salami on top of the pepperoni?Edwin Wohlford shuffles nervously. He shoves his hands deep in the pockets of his gray cardigan. His blue eyes nervously scan the ground through square glasses. He hunches up his shoulders as if he were trying to disappear inside himself.
What if I get fired?
He was fired once before, 15 or 20 years ago. Wohlford is 39 and really can't remember the last time he held a job, but he's been taking his medication -- and this time it's going to be different. Today is payday.
July 30, 2004. He'd set two alarm clocks -- one for 5 a.m. and another for 5:30 -- and got up before either went off. At 6:40 a.m., Wohlford left the Clearwater, Florida, condo he shares with his mom and took the bus to Vincent House in Pinellas Park, a clubhouse for people with mental illnesses.
Every morning, before going to work at the sub shop, Wohlford stops by Vincent House. He vacuums the dining area, washes dishes or scrubs the bathrooms. At 9:35 he pulls on his new shirt from Firehouse Subs. "I'm ready," he says, looking around anxiously for Victor Taylor, a staff member who drives him to work.
"What if I'm late?"
Wohlford has schizophrenia. Everything scares him.
In high school, Wohlford was sure all the kids hated him. His heart would start fluttering. He'd close his eyes and try to breathe slowly.
When he was 20, living in California, he started shutting himself in his room. In the dark. For days. Finally, he dragged himself to a doctor and got diagnosed.
"He's never been able to live on his own," his mother, Patty, says. "He lived under a bridge for a while. But I don't count that."
When Wohlford was 25, he moved to Florida to be with his mom. For more than a decade, he went to day treatment. He played cards and did puzzles and shared during group therapy. He earned Monopoly money for participating. Every Friday, he cashed it in at the snack bar. Save $100, and you got yourself a Coke.
"He kept saying he wanted to work and earn real money," Patty says. "But no one knew how to help him."
Then just after Christmas, in early 2004, she found Vincent House. It's named for the painter Van Gogh, who suffered from mental illness. There were seven staff and 195 members. People go there to make connections, gain confidence and learn life skills: balancing a checkbook, working on a computer, cooking in a commercial kitchen. Members can come five days a week, from 8:30 a.m. until 4:30 p.m. On Saturday they have picnics and go bowling. Wohlford went often.
Until the late 1960s, most people like Edwin Wohlford were locked away. With the discovery of drug treatments in the 1970s, people with mental illnesses started moving out of hospitals and into group homes. Then came day-treatment programs and group crafts. The next step was to give people real jobs.
"By the '80s, folks were deciding that people with mental illnesses might be able to work," says Sally Rogers, a psychologist at Boston University's Center for Psychiatric Rehabilitation. Some local governments and treatment centers set up "supported employment," in which counselors help clients with job interviews, then keep tabs on their work.
But some seriously ill people, such as Wohlford, need more. That's where Vincent House comes in.
This spring, about the time that Wohlford joined Vincent House, it launched a program called "transitional employment." Members earn the right to hold part-time jobs by working in the clubhouse -- to prove they can cope with the responsibility. Then Vincent House finds an employer willing to give a member a chance. First, a staffer trains for the job -- then works with a member to show him how to do it. That way, the member doesn't have to go through the stress of interviewing and he has a "friend in the business." Victor Taylor is Wohlford's friend and mentor.
"They're all entry-level positions," says Elliott Steele, founder of Vincent House. "They all pay at least minimum wage. We have to explain to a lot of members that they can work part-time without losing their disability benefits."
So far, eight members of Vincent House have gotten jobs. Some file medical records. One ships plumbing supplies. Another works at a catering company.
"Where's Victor? I can't be late. Where's Victor?" Wohlford asks, pacing around the clubhouse. His voice is loud, quavering.
Victor Taylor drives Wohlford to work. For two weeks, Taylor had gone alone to Firehouse Subs to learn how to weigh lunch meat and wrap ham rolls. Then he spent more than a week standing beside Wohlford at the shop, showing him what to do, encouraging him, calming him, slapping him high-fives.
At 9:40 a.m., Taylor walks up, grinning. "You ready, brother? You're on your own today," he says, wrapping his arm around Wohlford. "Big day. Payday! That's what I'm talking about."
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