My Manager Invited Me for Drinks Knowing I Was 2 Years Sober. That Wasn’t Even the Worst Part.

I need to tell you about the lunch invitation that made my blood run cold.

January 25, 2023: I finally had enough. I decided to file an HR complaint against my managers at Fidelity. Twenty-four hours later, literally the next fucking day, my branch manager sends me a calendar invite. Subject line: “Let’s celebrate your progress on The Process.”

That’s when I knew they were coming for me.

But let me back up, because to understand how insidious workplace abuse really is, you need to know how they break you down piece by piece. How they make you question reality itself. How they smile while they destroy everything you’ve worked for.

And trust me, I’d worked for everything I had.

From Bagging Groceries to Six Figures (Or: How Success Made Me a Target)

Picture this: Kid from Roseville, Michigan, watching his dad’s real estate empire crumble in 2008. Mental health, physical health, family stability, all gone. By 2014, we lost the house. My dad had a mental health crisis when I was 12 and went on disability. While my friends worried about college applications, I was bagging groceries at Kroger, working nights through high school, trying to keep my family afloat. I was parentified, still feeling responsible for my parents’ wellbeing years later.

There’s more. Sexual abuse by a family member for 5–6 years, ending around age 12 or 13. Complex PTSD before I even knew what those letters meant.

After graduation, I bounced between retail jobs, J.C. Penney, then Nordstrom selling men’s suits. But I had bigger plans. Got into insurance, State Farm, then Allied Insurance. The financial industry called to me because understanding money, helping others manage it, felt like the answer to everything my family went through.

GLP & Associates gave me my shot in securities in 2013. Got my Series 7 and 65. By 2018, I’d made it to Fidelity, the promised land. Comprehensive planning. Growth opportunities. A real career.

By 2020, I was killing it. Top performer in my branch two years running. Ranked 2nd in the country one quarter. Promoted twice within 6 months. Making more money than I’d ever dreamed of. I’d even gotten sober, finished my bachelor’s degree at Wayne State while working full-time, and was finally diagnosed with ADHD at 30, understanding why everything felt ten times harder for me than everyone else. Complex PTSD from childhood trauma, ADHD, four years sober. I wasn’t just surviving anymore, I was thriving.

That’s when Tom became my manager. And that’s when everything went to shit.

The Three Words That Became My Nightmare: “The Process”

Here’s what workplace gaslighting actually looks like:

Tom would say things like, “I wish I was making what you’re making when I was your age.” Not a compliment. A threat wrapped in envy. “We’re probably going to retire at the same time,” he’d smirk. I was 29. He was pushing 40.

But the real mindfuck was something they called “The Process”, capital T, capital P. Some mysterious methodology for client communications that apparently everyone understood except me. Every time I asked for clarification:

Me: “Can you give me the specific steps?”
Tom: “Well, every client is different.”
Me: “But you said there’s one process we all follow?”
Tom: “You need to personalize it.”
Me: “Okay, but what’s the baseline I’m personalizing from?”
Tom: “There’s lots of resources.”

Round and fucking round. Like trying to nail Jell-O to a wall.

Scott, my “sales coach”, and I use that term loosely, was worse. This guy cut his teeth at Olde Discount Brokerage, a notorious bucket shop from the ’90s. The most obnoxious person I’ve ever met. His coaching style? Invite me for beers. Repeatedly. After I’d told him twice I was in recovery.

“We should grab a drink and discuss this.”
“Let’s talk about it over a beer.”
“Grab a beer this weekend and read through this.”

I must have said 10 times “Scott, I’m in recovery from alcohol addiction. I don’t drink anymore.”

The Data That’ll Make Your Skin Crawl

Let me hit you with some numbers that’ll explain why this matters beyond just my story:

Recent studies show 75% of workers experience mental health challenges, but that number skyrockets in toxic workplaces. We’re talking 90% of employees in unhealthy work environments can’t sleep at night. Not “have trouble sleeping.” Can’t. Fucking. Sleep.

Workplace bullying affects 11% of workers officially, but that’s just who admits it. Who reports it. Who doesn’t convince themselves they’re “being too sensitive” or “can’t handle the corporate world.”

Here’s the kicker: Employees with ADHD are 60% more likely to be fired and 30% more likely to have chronic employment issues. When I disclosed my ADHD to Tom, hoping for some basic understanding, maybe some accommodation, his response?

“Yeah, well, I probably have it too. I get distracted sometimes.”

This was during Fidelity’s own Neurodivergent Awareness Week. The irony was so thick you could choke on it.

The Timeline of a Professional Execution

Spring 2022: Tom offers to switch me to a new manager due to “style mismatch.” Other reps pull me aside: “Don’t rock the boat.” “Just salute the flag.” I stayed.

January 2023: I’m explaining to Tom how Scott’s “coaching” is actually making me worse. Tom interrupts: “How much of your development is your responsibility?” When I try to answer, he cuts me off again: “What’s your client’s son’s name from last week?”

“I don’t know, it wasn’t relevant to — “

“Then why should he do business with you? Maybe Fidelity isn’t the place for you.”

All while smiling.

Get this: Two years after they destroyed me for speaking up, Tom was forced out of management. I was the first to call out his bullshit, and I paid the price so others wouldn’t have to. But at least the universe eventually served some justice.

January 25, 2023: I file the HR complaint.

January 26, 2023: The lunch invitation arrives. To “celebrate my journey.” With both managers who I’d just reported.

February 24, 2023: After the world’s most uncomfortable lunch where they spent most of it talking to each other, then grilled me about my income goals and what I’d “do with the extra money,” I email HR again. Their response? Keep attending meetings. Don’t appear insubordinate.

March 2023: I get a survey about Scott. Ask around, nobody else got one. The “anonymous” survey only I received.

March 27, 2023: HR calls. I need to take “a couple days off” while they “work on a resolution.” My access is cut. Tom tells the office: “If Cody comes in, let management know immediately.”

March 29, 2023: 1:30 PM phone call. “The management team has decided to part ways with you.”

Concerns around “performance” and “compliance.” When I asked for specifics? Something about emails needing approval. Emails that Tom himself had told me were fine after I’d specifically asked for guidance.

What Workplace PTSD Actually Feels Like

The research says workplace bullying leads to “increased mental distress, sleep disturbances, depression and anxiety, adjustment disorders, and even work-related suicide.”

Those aren’t just words on a page. That’s waking up at 3 AM with your heart racing, replaying conversations, wondering if you’re crazy. That’s second-guessing every email, every interaction, every breath you take in the office.

That’s me, four years sober, ADHD finally managed, making six figures, top performer, reduced to an anxiety-riddled mess who couldn’t trust his own perception of reality.

My therapist Emily Spears, who’d been with me for four years through the complex PTSD work, saw what was happening. She noted the restlessness, the difficulty following through, the angry outbursts that weren’t me, they were trauma responses to being systematically destroyed.

Because that’s what good gaslighting does. It doesn’t just make you doubt the situation. It makes you doubt yourself.

Studies show that 62% of employees uncomfortable sharing about mental health also feel burned out. But what they don’t capture is the special kind of hell reserved for those of us with invisible disabilities, substance abuse history, or any vulnerability that makes us “different.”

We’re not just burned out. We’re burning from the inside while trying to appear fireproof.

The psych eval that confirmed my ADHD also showed something else: I was easily distracted, needed fidget tools to focus, had trouble sustaining attention, avoided tasks requiring mental effort, worked better under pressure. Classic ADHD, Combined Presentation. But instead of accommodations, I got mockery. Instead of understanding, I got “The Process.”

The Motherfuckers Put It in Writing (And Still Got Away With It)

Here’s the truly insane part: They documented their discrimination. The Form U5 they filed claimed I “did not follow firm requirements relating to communications with clients and use of planning tools with clients, including instances of using a planning tool without confirming the accuracy of information.”

Translation: We couldn’t explain “The Process” but fired him for not following it.

This is what modern workplace abuse looks like. Not screaming. Not throwing things. Just systematic psychological torture wrapped in corporate speak, delivered with a smile.

The global cost of workplace mental health issues? $1 trillion in lost productivity annually. But that number doesn’t capture the human cost. The careers destroyed. The confidence shattered. The people who were thriving until someone decided they were a threat.

Why I’m Still Standing (And Why You Need to Hear This)

My arbitration with FINRA proved what I knew all along, their reasons were bullshit. But even partial vindication doesn’t undo the damage. Doesn’t give back the sleepless nights. Doesn’t erase the self-doubt they planted like seeds in my brain.

But here’s what those assholes didn’t count on: I’m still here. Still in the industry. Still refusing to shut up about what they did.

Because every time we stay silent, they win. Every time we internalize their gaslighting, we give them permission to do it to someone else. Someone who might not survive it.

Recent studies on treatment for workplace bullying victims show something powerful: We can heal. We can recover. We can come back stronger. But first, we have to name it. Call it what it is. Abuse.

Your Survival Guide (From Someone Who Barely Made It)

If any of this sounds familiar, if you’re reading this with that sick feeling in your stomach, here’s what you need to know:

Document Everything. Every backhanded compliment. Every impossible request. Every “casual” comment about your income, your age, your disability, your recovery. Time, date, witnesses. Even if it seems paranoid. Especially if it seems paranoid.

Trust Your Gut. If something feels wrong, it probably is. If you’re constantly confused, constantly apologizing, constantly feeling like you’re failing despite good results, that’s not you. That’s them.

Find Your People. The coworkers who pulled me aside with warnings? They knew. There are always people who know. Find them. Listen to them.

Get Professional Help. Therapy isn’t admitting defeat. It’s armor against their mindfuckery. It’s someone reflecting reality back to you when they’re trying to distort it.

Know Your Worth. I brought in five employees to Fidelity. Made them money. Served clients well. Your contributions matter, even if they’re trying to erase them.

The Truth That Set Me Free (And Might Save You)

Here’s what took me too long to understand: It was never about “The Process.” It was about power. Control. Putting me in my place.

Tom resented my success. Scott enjoyed watching me squirm. The company protected them because that’s what companies do, protect the status quo, not the people making waves by succeeding while different.

But here’s what they didn’t understand about people like us, people who’ve bagged groceries, driven forklifts, survived addiction, managed ADHD, built something from nothing: We’re harder to kill than they think.

They can take our jobs. They can lie on our U5s. They can gaslight us until we question our own names.

But they can’t take our stories. They can’t silence us forever. They can’t stop us from warning others, from building better, from refusing to let their dysfunction define our worth.

My name is Cody Taymore. I was fired from Fidelity for asking questions about a process nobody could explain. My manager invited me for drinks knowing I was in recovery. They destroyed my career because I had the audacity to succeed while being different.

A kid who survived childhood trauma, sexual abuse, family mental health crises, addiction, violence, evictions, and still made it to multiple six figures. A man with diagnosed ADHD and complex PTSD who outperformed his neurotypical peers. That’s what threatened them.

And I’m still fucking here.

If you’re in the thick of it right now, drowning in their manufactured confusion, please know: You’re not crazy. You’re not weak. You’re not the problem.

They are.

And you’re going to survive this. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But you will. Because that’s what we do. We survive. We speak. We refuse to let them win.

Document everything. Trust yourself. Get help. And when you’re ready, tell your story.

They’re counting on your silence.

Disappoint them.

— Cody Taymore

Kill The Silence

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