I was sent a rather scary solicitors' letter this week which advised me that if I did not comply with something my neighbour wanted me to do, "counsel would be briefed" and I would be taken to court.
Sheesh!
That's not really the kind of thing I like to get in the post.
The letter is designed to intimidate and for a whole day this is exactly what it succeeds in doing. So while I am trying to concentrate on work, and the play, and meetings; there is a lurking unease and fear permeating everything I am doing.
Until suddenly I take a deep breath and think enough.
More and more I am starting to believe that men simply don't get subjected to the same f***ing crap which comes my way. I don't believe Line Manager would have publicly humiliated a man, I don't believe New Boss would have told a man he was "being silly", and I certainly don't believe my male neighbour would attempt to intimidate and threaten a man.
What all this amounts to is bullying.
And I absolutely hate, despise and loathe being bullied.
So I offer up a prayer for being in the luxurious position of having my own office; and spend four hours writing a response couched in equivalent legalese in which I refuse to meet their client's unreasonable, ridiculous deadline and demands, make a number of demands of my own, and advise them that I am consulting a litigation solicitor with immediate effect.
Today I receive a second letter from my neighbour's solicitor.
He has agreed to meet all my counter demands and pay the relevant legal costs.
Well, that's a relief - given that since hand-delivering my initial letter I have done absolutely bugger all about progressing the matter, and I certainly haven't got round to contacting a solicitor...
I was just bluffing.
It's been a weird week! And leaves me pondering that I don't seem to have too much difficulty being relatively "spiritual" when people leave me alone and allow me to get on with my own business. But its a real struggle when someone rattles my cage.
There was a time no-one rattled my cage much because I snarled, growled and roared whenever anyone came near it. But now people rattle it all the time !!
What's changed?
I guess I have changed.
But sometimes - just sometimes - I wish I could still deploy my former snarl.
Because it was enough to send people screaming for the hills.
Saturday 30 June 2012
Falling at the First Fence
I've been galumphing around that sodding racetrack all week, trying to align myself more authentically with Stepford Employee as far as my co-workers and employers are concerned. And I haven't done too badly. But I haven't done too well either...
At the start of the week, a fairly minor hurdle presents itself. Ex-Army Man emails me with some questions about our office move and at the end of my reply, I compliment him upon having achieved this so efficiently. (I mean handsome is as handsome does, fair play, and credit where credit is due etc etc). This is all part of my new resolve to look for the best in people.
Ex-Army Man responds according to his own script, not mine, seizing advantage of my opener to send me an account of his brilliance. I send back the email equivalent of "mmmmm".
Increasing my horse's speed, I surmount a couple of email barriers from Line Manager and Personnel with comparative ease, and settle into a moderate canter. All is going well, when I open an email from Spiteful Manager advising all and sundry that Remora has made some cakes and that they are under his guardianship in Whispering Corner.
Ah! Remora.
Thereby hangs a tale far too long, dark and ugly to recount without a week's supply of Valium and a therapist on speed dial. (Needless to say, I realised a long time ago that Remora is almost certainly certifiably mad...)
Which is why, when I read Spiteful Manager's final sentence, I am very thankful that I happen to read it while alone in my own office, at a safe distance from my fellow co-workers.
"Remora has asked me to point out" he says (and let us not enquire why she is using a go-between to communicate this vital message....) "Remora has asked me to point out that you must not eat her cakes if you are allergic to nuts".
"I am!" I sob between convulsive whoops of laughter. " I am very much allergic to nuts. Particularly nuts called Remora".
At this point, my trusty steed falters as it approaches the water jump. Inevitably I fall off and find myself waist deep in a great big puddle of Remorse.
Deary me.
Must Try Harder.
At the start of the week, a fairly minor hurdle presents itself. Ex-Army Man emails me with some questions about our office move and at the end of my reply, I compliment him upon having achieved this so efficiently. (I mean handsome is as handsome does, fair play, and credit where credit is due etc etc). This is all part of my new resolve to look for the best in people.
Ex-Army Man responds according to his own script, not mine, seizing advantage of my opener to send me an account of his brilliance. I send back the email equivalent of "mmmmm".
Increasing my horse's speed, I surmount a couple of email barriers from Line Manager and Personnel with comparative ease, and settle into a moderate canter. All is going well, when I open an email from Spiteful Manager advising all and sundry that Remora has made some cakes and that they are under his guardianship in Whispering Corner.
Ah! Remora.
Thereby hangs a tale far too long, dark and ugly to recount without a week's supply of Valium and a therapist on speed dial. (Needless to say, I realised a long time ago that Remora is almost certainly certifiably mad...)
Which is why, when I read Spiteful Manager's final sentence, I am very thankful that I happen to read it while alone in my own office, at a safe distance from my fellow co-workers.
"Remora has asked me to point out" he says (and let us not enquire why she is using a go-between to communicate this vital message....) "Remora has asked me to point out that you must not eat her cakes if you are allergic to nuts".
"I am!" I sob between convulsive whoops of laughter. " I am very much allergic to nuts. Particularly nuts called Remora".
At this point, my trusty steed falters as it approaches the water jump. Inevitably I fall off and find myself waist deep in a great big puddle of Remorse.
Deary me.
Must Try Harder.
Rise and Shine
It's 7am on a weekday morning and I am facing a room of 15 people of varying ages, colours and backgrounds. We all have one thing in common - we are in recovery from our shared illness.
I used to love early morning meetings. They kept me going when my head felt like it was going to fall off my shoulders because the thoughts in my head were whirring so uncontrollably I couldn't sleep. They kept me going when I knew a difficult day at work lay ahead, enabling me to get a measure of perspective and calm before I walked out to face the day. And once, when I was in the States, I got up every morning at 5am so that I could get to that particular city's 6am meetings on time.
Today's meeting is two minutes from where I live, but it is the first time I have managed to get my a**e out of bed to attend it - and that only because the young Aussie who runs it asked me last week to speak at it, and I have to honour my commitment.
But my young friend Frances is in the room, and my friend Sue. There are other people there whom I hold in high regard. And there is a woman I have never met before who speaks with great wit and verve. The sense of camaraderie is palpable; our shared sense of gratitude overwhelming. It is an hour of humour, warmth and exhilaration.
Despite the many complicated things going on in my life at the moment (some negative), once I leave the meeting I manage to have a very good day.
Funny that.
I used to love early morning meetings. They kept me going when my head felt like it was going to fall off my shoulders because the thoughts in my head were whirring so uncontrollably I couldn't sleep. They kept me going when I knew a difficult day at work lay ahead, enabling me to get a measure of perspective and calm before I walked out to face the day. And once, when I was in the States, I got up every morning at 5am so that I could get to that particular city's 6am meetings on time.
Today's meeting is two minutes from where I live, but it is the first time I have managed to get my a**e out of bed to attend it - and that only because the young Aussie who runs it asked me last week to speak at it, and I have to honour my commitment.
But my young friend Frances is in the room, and my friend Sue. There are other people there whom I hold in high regard. And there is a woman I have never met before who speaks with great wit and verve. The sense of camaraderie is palpable; our shared sense of gratitude overwhelming. It is an hour of humour, warmth and exhilaration.
Despite the many complicated things going on in my life at the moment (some negative), once I leave the meeting I manage to have a very good day.
Funny that.
Wednesday 27 June 2012
Contrariwise
As part of my renewed resolve to meet difficulties head-on, I have now emailed Personnel agreeing that I will go ahead with the intended mediation between myself and Line Manager, provided that it happens prior to the one year anniversary of the Horrible Incident which led to the final fracturing of our relationship.
He's a man of 60+ in a dinosaurial local authority.
And then I try very hard to stop thinking about it.
How changeable! I hear you cry. How contrary, how perverse, how very inconsistent.
Well, yes. I can see why you would think that.
But having reflected over the weekend, I have determined to try and do the right thing.
Personnel reveals an unexpected Real Woman side, swiftly taking exception to my casual aside that it is a shame my employers decided not to pay for mediation 2 years ago when I first asked them to do so. She pointedly informs me in response that the Council was always willing to pay for mediation.
???
News to me !
I send Personnel an email saying it is great to know that my employers are such believers in mediation, and that I would be very interested to know on how many occasions over the past 5 years the local authority has paid for mediation to resolve staff conflicts? There is a long silence before Personnel responds, letting me know that they have - um - never previously paid for mediation.
I rest my case.
I mean I really do rest it, as I resist the impulse to respond.
Because I have realised all over again that "engagement is futile" !
I have also realised that Line Manager is never going to change. He is never going to give me adequate support, he will never manage to give praise where praise is due, and he will never respond to at least 50% of the emails I send him; including those which require a prompt response. Even in the current circumstances (post-grievance, all meetings monitored, both of us carefully watching our Ps & Qs) he still hasn't responded to my week-old request to apply for a short training course, or bothered to set up our next meeting !!!
Does he do this because he is a bastard? No.
Does he do this because he hates me? No.
Does he do this because he is lazy? No.
He does all this because he has never behaved any differently, and no-one has ever given him any reason to change. He represents an organisational problem; but not one significant enough to prevent him racking up decades of secure employment and a whacking great pension. He ticks enough boxes to keep himself in a job, and to expect him to be good at the "people side" is obviously an ask too far.
Nuff said.
By 10am the next morning, the date for mediation has been set.
I put it in my diary.And then I try very hard to stop thinking about it.
Tuesday 26 June 2012
Asking for Help
I wish I would stop waking up at 3am and spend 2 or more hours unable to get back to sleep. There is a lot going on in my life at the moment, and my brain seems to choose the early hours to process things. Today I ended up speaking to a solicitor on one phone and the hospital on another. I don't appear to be a very stereotypical female, because I proved unable to multi-task and got totally confused trying to juggle the conversations.
None of these issues are connected to work. And stressful though some of them are, they don't seem to be triggering my anxiety symptoms. I am just putting one foot in front of the other, and managing not to take anything personally. It was suggested to me recently not to describe things as "problems" but as "situations" - and this makes a significant difference to how I approach all the things I need to deal with right now.
So why can't I do this in relation to the workplace and my colleagues? WHY have I been finding it so impossibly bloody difficult to maintain detachment from everything that has happened, to ensure my feelings remain undamaged, and my sense of self stays intact....? Why does my Stepford Employee persona periodically wobble, and get shoved aside by Real Woman who appears unable to resist coming out with acidulous asides and pointed pronouncements...???
I need to take a fresh look at my stumbling blocks. And I think I need some help.
I'm quite good at asking for help these days. I freely seek advice on matters legal, medical, and procedural. I am happy to consult more knowledgeable people about DIY, fashion, curtain making and gardening rather than attempt to deal with such arcane matters unaided. And I regularly bombard my friends with questions - the best local cafes, if they know a good plumber, and where to buy that stain remover which gets turmeric out of white shirts.
So it isn't too hard for me to follow up my doctor's recent advice to me - that I get some professional help to deal with my anxieties in relation to the workplace.
After dithering around for a few days consulting the British Association of Counselling and Psychotherapy website, flabbergasted by the number of practitioners listed within a 5 mile radius of my postcode, I elect to keep matters simple and send a text to the counsellor I saw for several sessions while I was signed off work earlier in the year. On that occasion, the sessions were arranged by my employers (for which I am genuinely grateful, irritating though their manipulations were at the time) but I am now asking if I can see him as a private client.
He responds within a few hours, suggesting that we discuss the matter when he returns to London this week. I am quite glad that I have decided to do something pro-active. Because I haven't been to the Town Hall for almost a week, and already I can feel my phobic resistance to the dear old place starting to creep back in...
None of these issues are connected to work. And stressful though some of them are, they don't seem to be triggering my anxiety symptoms. I am just putting one foot in front of the other, and managing not to take anything personally. It was suggested to me recently not to describe things as "problems" but as "situations" - and this makes a significant difference to how I approach all the things I need to deal with right now.
So why can't I do this in relation to the workplace and my colleagues? WHY have I been finding it so impossibly bloody difficult to maintain detachment from everything that has happened, to ensure my feelings remain undamaged, and my sense of self stays intact....? Why does my Stepford Employee persona periodically wobble, and get shoved aside by Real Woman who appears unable to resist coming out with acidulous asides and pointed pronouncements...???
I need to take a fresh look at my stumbling blocks. And I think I need some help.
I'm quite good at asking for help these days. I freely seek advice on matters legal, medical, and procedural. I am happy to consult more knowledgeable people about DIY, fashion, curtain making and gardening rather than attempt to deal with such arcane matters unaided. And I regularly bombard my friends with questions - the best local cafes, if they know a good plumber, and where to buy that stain remover which gets turmeric out of white shirts.
So it isn't too hard for me to follow up my doctor's recent advice to me - that I get some professional help to deal with my anxieties in relation to the workplace.
After dithering around for a few days consulting the British Association of Counselling and Psychotherapy website, flabbergasted by the number of practitioners listed within a 5 mile radius of my postcode, I elect to keep matters simple and send a text to the counsellor I saw for several sessions while I was signed off work earlier in the year. On that occasion, the sessions were arranged by my employers (for which I am genuinely grateful, irritating though their manipulations were at the time) but I am now asking if I can see him as a private client.
He responds within a few hours, suggesting that we discuss the matter when he returns to London this week. I am quite glad that I have decided to do something pro-active. Because I haven't been to the Town Hall for almost a week, and already I can feel my phobic resistance to the dear old place starting to creep back in...
Sunday 24 June 2012
Boomtown Rat
I used to spend a large proportion of my weekend working.
- Either actually working (in my office)
- or thinking about work
- or shuffling never-ending piles of reports and papers
- or forcing my poor long-suffering husband to listen to monologues about monstrous co-workers whom he is never likely to meet, and about whom furthermore he does not give a f*** (his terminology, not mine...)
But now I seem to have swung - with slightly alarming rapidity, I feel - to the other extreme.
I have just spent a weekend doing absolutely no work whatsover; and on the rare occasions I thought about it, it was with comparatively benign tolerance...
Indeed, all my waking hours this weekend have been spent:
- rehearsing for the play I am in (quite a lot, we rather need it...)
- reading a book recommended by a friend ("The Gift of Fear" by Gavin de Becker - interesting)
- going to a concert of chamber music (two of Beethoven's Piano Trios)
- meeting artists and makers at an open house event (and looking at their beautiful objects)
- booking tickets (for theatre, more chamber music, and an opera)
- planning an imminent trip to the movies with Sue Inner Circle
- doing some writing
- and enjoying some wonderful recovery talk with sane and sound friends
God - its been FABULOUS !!!
I've always wanted to live like this.
Life is booming!
However, I am now starting to empathise with Bob Geldof.
I don't like Mondays.
- Either actually working (in my office)
- or thinking about work
- or shuffling never-ending piles of reports and papers
- or forcing my poor long-suffering husband to listen to monologues about monstrous co-workers whom he is never likely to meet, and about whom furthermore he does not give a f*** (his terminology, not mine...)
But now I seem to have swung - with slightly alarming rapidity, I feel - to the other extreme.
I have just spent a weekend doing absolutely no work whatsover; and on the rare occasions I thought about it, it was with comparatively benign tolerance...
Indeed, all my waking hours this weekend have been spent:
- rehearsing for the play I am in (quite a lot, we rather need it...)
- reading a book recommended by a friend ("The Gift of Fear" by Gavin de Becker - interesting)
- going to a concert of chamber music (two of Beethoven's Piano Trios)
- meeting artists and makers at an open house event (and looking at their beautiful objects)
- booking tickets (for theatre, more chamber music, and an opera)
- planning an imminent trip to the movies with Sue Inner Circle
- doing some writing
- and enjoying some wonderful recovery talk with sane and sound friends
God - its been FABULOUS !!!
I've always wanted to live like this.
Life is booming!
However, I am now starting to empathise with Bob Geldof.
I don't like Mondays.
Becher's Brook
I'm sitting at a Saturday morning Support Group meeting, with my young friend Leslie and another friend (mobile phone entry: Jo Inner Circle) listening to a great speaker talking about the importance of constantly reviewing and monitoring one's own thinking, reactions and conduct. I don't know why I am so receptive to this speaker's message, but it is while listening to him that I experience the peculiar sensation of my thinking altering in an instant (a not uncommon happening).
I realise that I am expecting people at work to be something they are not. And that what they are, has absolutely nothing to do with me.
After the meeting, Jo and I have arranged to spend the day together. Obviously the first item on the agenda is getting to our destination and then looking for a nice place to have lunch. A funky vegan place holds immediate appeal for both of us, so we settle ourselves at a table to continue our conversation while awaiting our polenta and roasted veg.
Jo (otherwise known as my Stylish Friend Jo) has a sharp intelligence and a quirky original way of putting things. I value her opinion and always benefit from running things past her. She is in the middle of telling me one of her amusing stories when she realises that she has said something which reveals some conflict around another person.
"Oh my God!' she says. "Hear that? I think I've got a wee resentment!! Hang on while I just get over it". She does a split second impression of riding a horse over a jump, and then continues with her story while I laugh at her effortless humour.
But afterwards, when we arrive at the crafts fair and are browsing among the jewellery, and textiles and ceramics; her little mime pops back into my head. And I have a vision of myself cantering round and round a race track alongside all the people I know; and all of us having to ride our horses over the things which obstruct and impede us from leading successful, happy lives. Over fears, and over grudges, and over misunderstandings. Because if we keep balking at the hurdles, we are going to stay stuck.
And I realise, to a degree that I have not yet fully understood, that my GREAT BIG HUGE RESENTMENT towards my employers is blocking me from getting on with the rest of my life.
It's so intimidating a hurdle that I can't get my horse to jump over it. Instead I fall off, and get hurt, and end up battered and bruised, and too scared to have another go. Time after time after time.
But over the rest of the weekend, I make a decision to have another go at leaping this obstacle so I can get on with the rest of the race.
I'm going to need a hard hat and a very strong horse.
Because this is going to be one of my biggest ever challenges.
This.
This is my Becher's Brook.
I realise that I am expecting people at work to be something they are not. And that what they are, has absolutely nothing to do with me.
After the meeting, Jo and I have arranged to spend the day together. Obviously the first item on the agenda is getting to our destination and then looking for a nice place to have lunch. A funky vegan place holds immediate appeal for both of us, so we settle ourselves at a table to continue our conversation while awaiting our polenta and roasted veg.
Jo (otherwise known as my Stylish Friend Jo) has a sharp intelligence and a quirky original way of putting things. I value her opinion and always benefit from running things past her. She is in the middle of telling me one of her amusing stories when she realises that she has said something which reveals some conflict around another person.
"Oh my God!' she says. "Hear that? I think I've got a wee resentment!! Hang on while I just get over it". She does a split second impression of riding a horse over a jump, and then continues with her story while I laugh at her effortless humour.
But afterwards, when we arrive at the crafts fair and are browsing among the jewellery, and textiles and ceramics; her little mime pops back into my head. And I have a vision of myself cantering round and round a race track alongside all the people I know; and all of us having to ride our horses over the things which obstruct and impede us from leading successful, happy lives. Over fears, and over grudges, and over misunderstandings. Because if we keep balking at the hurdles, we are going to stay stuck.
And I realise, to a degree that I have not yet fully understood, that my GREAT BIG HUGE RESENTMENT towards my employers is blocking me from getting on with the rest of my life.
It's so intimidating a hurdle that I can't get my horse to jump over it. Instead I fall off, and get hurt, and end up battered and bruised, and too scared to have another go. Time after time after time.
But over the rest of the weekend, I make a decision to have another go at leaping this obstacle so I can get on with the rest of the race.
I'm going to need a hard hat and a very strong horse.
Because this is going to be one of my biggest ever challenges.
This.
This is my Becher's Brook.
Friday 22 June 2012
Presentiments
After last week's diagnosis of Situational Anxiety by my GP, I emailed Personnel and very politely and apologetically withdrew from all plans to set up a formal mediation session with Line Manager.
But because I didn't want to enter into further discussion or negotiation, or be put under any more pressure, I composed this email with great care; making sure it was measured and courteous, but above all decisive.
So I feel vexed today when I receive another email from Personnel requesting that I ring her to discuss the matter. I could ignore her request entirely. In fact I consider this option for several hours, before finally picking up the phone. And the reason I don't want to talk to Personnel ? I know she is going to try to get me to change my mind.
And so it proves.
I start off with a polite hello, but within seconds Personnel is advising me (in her considerable wisdom) that I am making the wrong decision, and that mediation is going to help me.
Really?
I leave long silences which Personnel fills with babbling; offering her apologies for having taken so long to set up the mediation session. "Mmmmmm," I say, forebearing to point out that I first asked for mediation in September 2010 when it might have actually made a difference. She asks lots of other questions too.
Personnel: how your "management meetings" going?
Me: They are adequate for the purpose
Personnel: Can you say what your issues still are?
Me: I would prefer to discuss them with someone who has a medical qualification or who has some experience in dealing with stress
Personnel: If this is work-related, you need to discuss this with your managers
Me: Thank you. I have already tried to have that conversation and it proved unproductive.
Personnel: How is your relationship with Line Manager these days?
Me: It is functional, adequate and professional
Personnel: How often are you going to the Town Hall?
Me: As little as possible, but as often as I need to in order to carry out my work programme.
Yes, agreed, I am not exactly making things easy for Personnel ! - but sheesh, I feel I am entitled to demonstrate a degree of froideur in the circs. Wearying of the interrogation, which shows no signs of letting up, I decide to seize the initiative.
"I show up!" I say."I do my job. What more does the organisation require of me?"
Personnel doesn't appear to have thought the matter through; but eventually offers up the suggestion that maybe the organisation would like to see me "happier".
Good Lord.
Thankfully Agnes Grey's lessons are still fresh in my mind, and enable me to get through the next part of the conversation with impressive restraint.
"I used to be happy at work", I tell her. "In fact I used to be an exceptionally high achiever who was free of anxiety, depression and fear. But sadly the events of the past year have changed all that. And because this organisation has totally failed to challenge the endemic bullying culture which includes senior managers among its proponents, there is little likelihood that my situation is ever going to change".
Personnel offers up a few final words of wisdom, concluding with the words "If it was me, I wouldn't take any notice of being bullied".
At this, I am unable to keep a note of sharp asperity out of my voice.
"Ah," I say. "But you're not me, are you Personnel? So you will surely agree that you are ill-placed to judge my feelings, my reactions or my perceptions. The only person who can do that is ME".
Personnel babbles on a little longer, but half-heartedly (and I have stopped listening anyway). I regretted calling her two minutes after the start of the call, and it has now dragged on for almost an hour, following a script I could have written out word for word in advance.
It's now 5pm and we conclude the conversation by mutual agreement.
Ten minutes later I have switched off my computer and have left the office. My plans for the evening are: spending half an hour at home with my husband, jumping on a train for a couple of hours' rehearsal with the cast of the play, meeting up with my husband again for a curry, and then watching a late night (preferably crappy) film on telly.
So Personnel's wishes are granted! Knowing I do not have to engage with the toxic side of work for the next 60 hours makes me very VERY happy indeed. In fact I would go so far as to describe my mood as ecstatic.
But because I didn't want to enter into further discussion or negotiation, or be put under any more pressure, I composed this email with great care; making sure it was measured and courteous, but above all decisive.
So I feel vexed today when I receive another email from Personnel requesting that I ring her to discuss the matter. I could ignore her request entirely. In fact I consider this option for several hours, before finally picking up the phone. And the reason I don't want to talk to Personnel ? I know she is going to try to get me to change my mind.
And so it proves.
I start off with a polite hello, but within seconds Personnel is advising me (in her considerable wisdom) that I am making the wrong decision, and that mediation is going to help me.
Really?
I leave long silences which Personnel fills with babbling; offering her apologies for having taken so long to set up the mediation session. "Mmmmmm," I say, forebearing to point out that I first asked for mediation in September 2010 when it might have actually made a difference. She asks lots of other questions too.
Personnel: how your "management meetings" going?
Me: They are adequate for the purpose
Personnel: Can you say what your issues still are?
Me: I would prefer to discuss them with someone who has a medical qualification or who has some experience in dealing with stress
Personnel: If this is work-related, you need to discuss this with your managers
Me: Thank you. I have already tried to have that conversation and it proved unproductive.
Personnel: How is your relationship with Line Manager these days?
Me: It is functional, adequate and professional
Personnel: How often are you going to the Town Hall?
Me: As little as possible, but as often as I need to in order to carry out my work programme.
Yes, agreed, I am not exactly making things easy for Personnel ! - but sheesh, I feel I am entitled to demonstrate a degree of froideur in the circs. Wearying of the interrogation, which shows no signs of letting up, I decide to seize the initiative.
"I show up!" I say."I do my job. What more does the organisation require of me?"
Personnel doesn't appear to have thought the matter through; but eventually offers up the suggestion that maybe the organisation would like to see me "happier".
Good Lord.
Thankfully Agnes Grey's lessons are still fresh in my mind, and enable me to get through the next part of the conversation with impressive restraint.
"I used to be happy at work", I tell her. "In fact I used to be an exceptionally high achiever who was free of anxiety, depression and fear. But sadly the events of the past year have changed all that. And because this organisation has totally failed to challenge the endemic bullying culture which includes senior managers among its proponents, there is little likelihood that my situation is ever going to change".
Personnel offers up a few final words of wisdom, concluding with the words "If it was me, I wouldn't take any notice of being bullied".
At this, I am unable to keep a note of sharp asperity out of my voice.
"Ah," I say. "But you're not me, are you Personnel? So you will surely agree that you are ill-placed to judge my feelings, my reactions or my perceptions. The only person who can do that is ME".
Personnel babbles on a little longer, but half-heartedly (and I have stopped listening anyway). I regretted calling her two minutes after the start of the call, and it has now dragged on for almost an hour, following a script I could have written out word for word in advance.
It's now 5pm and we conclude the conversation by mutual agreement.
Ten minutes later I have switched off my computer and have left the office. My plans for the evening are: spending half an hour at home with my husband, jumping on a train for a couple of hours' rehearsal with the cast of the play, meeting up with my husband again for a curry, and then watching a late night (preferably crappy) film on telly.
So Personnel's wishes are granted! Knowing I do not have to engage with the toxic side of work for the next 60 hours makes me very VERY happy indeed. In fact I would go so far as to describe my mood as ecstatic.
Presents and Presentations
It's about 11am and I am enjoying the peace and quiet of my own office, when an email pings up. It is Line Manager announcing that in 90 mins time, the Director is coming to the main office to make a presentation to a Low Profile Colleague, who this very day has racked up 30 years in the continuous service of our local authority.
Oh bugger.
I absolutely have to go over to the building I thought I had waved a firm goodbye to yesterday. Because Low Profile Colleague is one of the unsung heroes of our department, and has given me particular help and support with my work programme over the past two years. But she works for other people too and we don't get the chance to chat much, so I had no idea that today's anniversary was looming.
I apologetically reschedule the meeting I am on the point of departing for, jiggle round a few other arrangements, buy a card and a bottle of champagne, leap on a bus, and manage to walk up the stairs to my department just ahead of the Director who is arriving to make the presentation.
It's a touching little occasion, and Low Profile Colleague says a few words in response - funny and nostalgic. As one of the people who benefit from this colleague's work, I hand over my gift and say thank you for all the support I have received. Photos are taken. We all stand around and eat strawberries; and for a few minutes, things feel like they ought to - that we are a team of people who over time have come to accept each other for what they are, and work together harmoniously to achieve a common goal.
Things feel ok - because some people are not there.
Politician's Daughter is not there.
Ex-Army Man is not there.
Above all, Remora is not there.
Spiteful Manager however is there. I suddenly notice that he is watching proceedings from his private domain - Whispering Corner - with what looks very like a sneer on his face. Usually he would be standing with The Others, all making comments under their breath and doing everything possible to deride the events before them, but clearly the presentation has caught everyone on the hop.
I briefly wonder how he feels being on his own for a change, given that he continues to do everything possible to isolate me !!
Before leaving to go back to my own office, I sit down at my desk to answer a couple of pressing emails. Seizing a rare opportunity, Line Manager does his "hovering" thing beside my chair.
"That was a nice thing to do", he says to me. "Getting Low Profile Colleague the card and champagne".
Be calm, be calm, I tell myself in Agnes Grey fashion. Because the following words are at the forefront of my brain:
"don't sound so f***ing surprised! Because strange as it may seem, and even though you did everything in your power to disprove it throughout the disciplinary procedure, actually I am a very nice person, who spends her entire life trying to do the right thing; and how I get through each day without seizing my vilest colleagues by the throats and stapling their ears to the wall, I really cannot fathom".
"My mouse doesn't seem to be working,' I say, shaking said object vaguely as I gaze into the middle distance. "I wonder why?"
After a slight pause which seems to last an eternity, Line Manager goes away.
Oh bugger.
I absolutely have to go over to the building I thought I had waved a firm goodbye to yesterday. Because Low Profile Colleague is one of the unsung heroes of our department, and has given me particular help and support with my work programme over the past two years. But she works for other people too and we don't get the chance to chat much, so I had no idea that today's anniversary was looming.
I apologetically reschedule the meeting I am on the point of departing for, jiggle round a few other arrangements, buy a card and a bottle of champagne, leap on a bus, and manage to walk up the stairs to my department just ahead of the Director who is arriving to make the presentation.
It's a touching little occasion, and Low Profile Colleague says a few words in response - funny and nostalgic. As one of the people who benefit from this colleague's work, I hand over my gift and say thank you for all the support I have received. Photos are taken. We all stand around and eat strawberries; and for a few minutes, things feel like they ought to - that we are a team of people who over time have come to accept each other for what they are, and work together harmoniously to achieve a common goal.
Things feel ok - because some people are not there.
Politician's Daughter is not there.
Ex-Army Man is not there.
Above all, Remora is not there.
Spiteful Manager however is there. I suddenly notice that he is watching proceedings from his private domain - Whispering Corner - with what looks very like a sneer on his face. Usually he would be standing with The Others, all making comments under their breath and doing everything possible to deride the events before them, but clearly the presentation has caught everyone on the hop.
I briefly wonder how he feels being on his own for a change, given that he continues to do everything possible to isolate me !!
Before leaving to go back to my own office, I sit down at my desk to answer a couple of pressing emails. Seizing a rare opportunity, Line Manager does his "hovering" thing beside my chair.
"That was a nice thing to do", he says to me. "Getting Low Profile Colleague the card and champagne".
Be calm, be calm, I tell myself in Agnes Grey fashion. Because the following words are at the forefront of my brain:
"don't sound so f***ing surprised! Because strange as it may seem, and even though you did everything in your power to disprove it throughout the disciplinary procedure, actually I am a very nice person, who spends her entire life trying to do the right thing; and how I get through each day without seizing my vilest colleagues by the throats and stapling their ears to the wall, I really cannot fathom".
"My mouse doesn't seem to be working,' I say, shaking said object vaguely as I gaze into the middle distance. "I wonder why?"
After a slight pause which seems to last an eternity, Line Manager goes away.
"The Stepford Employee" by Anne Bronte
Finding time for reading isn't as hard as I have made it out to be for the past two years. I have now managed to finish both "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall" and "Agnes Grey" in the space of a fortnight !!
Despite the occasional descents into lurid romanticism, I am nonetheless transfixed by Agnes's magnificent composure in the fact of the severest provocation. To wit:
"Be calm, be calm, whatever happens, I said within myself; and truly I kept this resolution so well, and was so fully occupied in steadying my heart and stifling the rebellious flutter of my heart, that when I was admitted into the hall and ushered into the presence of Mrs Bloomfield, I almost forgot to answer her polite salutation.."
Her chilly reception is just the start of the ordeal, for the 19 year old Agnes has been employed as governess to a family of the most ghastly ill-behaved children I can ever recall reading about (excepting perhaps for those in "Nurse Matilda").
Hang on a mo!
They remind me of some of my colleagues...
Agnes is constrained in typical Stepford Employee fashion (being the impoverished daughter of a clergyman) to feign compliance, willingness and obedience; despite being subjected to daily asides from the parents about her apparent incompentence.
"I knew all this was pointed at me; and these and all similar innuendoes, affected me far more deeply than any open accusations would have done; for against the latter I should have been roused to speak in my own defence: now I judged it my wisest plan to subdue every resentful impulse, suppress every sensitive shrinking, and go on perseveringly doing my best; for, irksome as my situation was, I earnestly wished to retain it...."
Oh Agnes ! I'm right with you, hon.
And though it might not be quite the done thing to celebrate the fact that following Agnes's subsequent incarcerations with other dysfunctional families, her escape is eventually effected by a nice man proposing marriage; frankly by the end of the novel I am ready to weep with relief...
O tempora! O mores!
Thank God today's Stepford Employee gets the chance to acquire a CV, a passport and a savings account.
Despite the occasional descents into lurid romanticism, I am nonetheless transfixed by Agnes's magnificent composure in the fact of the severest provocation. To wit:
"Be calm, be calm, whatever happens, I said within myself; and truly I kept this resolution so well, and was so fully occupied in steadying my heart and stifling the rebellious flutter of my heart, that when I was admitted into the hall and ushered into the presence of Mrs Bloomfield, I almost forgot to answer her polite salutation.."
Her chilly reception is just the start of the ordeal, for the 19 year old Agnes has been employed as governess to a family of the most ghastly ill-behaved children I can ever recall reading about (excepting perhaps for those in "Nurse Matilda").
Hang on a mo!
They remind me of some of my colleagues...
Agnes is constrained in typical Stepford Employee fashion (being the impoverished daughter of a clergyman) to feign compliance, willingness and obedience; despite being subjected to daily asides from the parents about her apparent incompentence.
"I knew all this was pointed at me; and these and all similar innuendoes, affected me far more deeply than any open accusations would have done; for against the latter I should have been roused to speak in my own defence: now I judged it my wisest plan to subdue every resentful impulse, suppress every sensitive shrinking, and go on perseveringly doing my best; for, irksome as my situation was, I earnestly wished to retain it...."
Oh Agnes ! I'm right with you, hon.
And though it might not be quite the done thing to celebrate the fact that following Agnes's subsequent incarcerations with other dysfunctional families, her escape is eventually effected by a nice man proposing marriage; frankly by the end of the novel I am ready to weep with relief...
O tempora! O mores!
Thank God today's Stepford Employee gets the chance to acquire a CV, a passport and a savings account.
Wednesday 20 June 2012
"Pack Up Your Troubles.."
Last time I sat in a meeting attended by twenty people, I couldn't open my mouth. Irrational (indeed "silly") though this may have been, it nonetheless affected me badly at the time, and left me worried that I was going to experience a recurrence of my horribly debilitating anxiety symptoms.
So it feels very good to turn up at a completely different, but equally large, meeting this morning, and be able to talk and comment on the topics under discussion without any difficulty whatsoever. I even make everyone laugh at one point! (deliberately, I mean. It's not that they are convulsed with amusement at the mere sight of me. I don't think so anyway...)
In the afternoon, I go along to a training course on a very boring subject but delivered by two young guys from another department. They are most atypical of our organisation, being attractive, articulate and personable. I know a couple of the other attendees, though most are unfamiliar to me. But amazingly, within five minutes I make all of them laugh too.
Hell - I am on a roll today !!!
I don't have to look far for the reason behind my comparative confidence and enjoyment. None of the people in today's meetings are colleagues from my department. Hence I feel no sense of threat or danger, and can relax.
The threat from The Jackals continues, however, to be very real.
Only this week I had lunch with Life Coach Colleague who was subjected, upon return, to interrogation by Spiteful Manager who then sought to persuade him that he should not spend time with me! My friends repeatedly point out that the behaviour I am subjected to belongs more in a kindergarten than a professional workplace. However true this may be, there is something peculiarly humiliating about being cold-shouldered, ostracised and bitched about by "grown-ups" with wrinkles, paunches and mortgages. Which is, of course, the whole point of their conduct...
We are having to move upstairs to temporary accommodation due to the sound of drilling, and everyone has been instructed to take stock of their own files, drawer contents and papers. Even though there will be no desk for me in the temporary office; when the training course finishes I finally enter my department for the first time that day and spend an hour packing up 20% of my papers into two crates (the other 80% I ruthlessly fling in a recycling sack....)
New Boss passes as I am attaching labels to the crates.
"You're ahead of the rest of us" he comments.
"Mmmm", I say. "I like being ahead".
I apologise for having left one of the crates on my desk, because it is too heavy to lift. New Boss responds entirely predictably (he is a Northern male, let us not forget) and, as if it weighs nothing, hefts said crate off my desk so he can place it tidily with its fellow at the side of the office. He doesn't appear to be using the Council's approved Manual Handling techniques! Goodness me, I hope he hasn't damaged his back.
I sweep a cloth over my now pristine desk, and tuck my chair underneath it. New Boss and Line Manager are now standing at my back, chatting. "All done," I say as I pass them on my way out of the office, intending (did they but know it) not to return for at least a month. "All packed away"
It's not very Stepford Employee, but I can't resist a Parthian shot; and as I disappear through the door, I send a few words floating back to them.
"It's as if I never even existed."
So it feels very good to turn up at a completely different, but equally large, meeting this morning, and be able to talk and comment on the topics under discussion without any difficulty whatsoever. I even make everyone laugh at one point! (deliberately, I mean. It's not that they are convulsed with amusement at the mere sight of me. I don't think so anyway...)
In the afternoon, I go along to a training course on a very boring subject but delivered by two young guys from another department. They are most atypical of our organisation, being attractive, articulate and personable. I know a couple of the other attendees, though most are unfamiliar to me. But amazingly, within five minutes I make all of them laugh too.
Hell - I am on a roll today !!!
I don't have to look far for the reason behind my comparative confidence and enjoyment. None of the people in today's meetings are colleagues from my department. Hence I feel no sense of threat or danger, and can relax.
The threat from The Jackals continues, however, to be very real.
Only this week I had lunch with Life Coach Colleague who was subjected, upon return, to interrogation by Spiteful Manager who then sought to persuade him that he should not spend time with me! My friends repeatedly point out that the behaviour I am subjected to belongs more in a kindergarten than a professional workplace. However true this may be, there is something peculiarly humiliating about being cold-shouldered, ostracised and bitched about by "grown-ups" with wrinkles, paunches and mortgages. Which is, of course, the whole point of their conduct...
We are having to move upstairs to temporary accommodation due to the sound of drilling, and everyone has been instructed to take stock of their own files, drawer contents and papers. Even though there will be no desk for me in the temporary office; when the training course finishes I finally enter my department for the first time that day and spend an hour packing up 20% of my papers into two crates (the other 80% I ruthlessly fling in a recycling sack....)
New Boss passes as I am attaching labels to the crates.
"You're ahead of the rest of us" he comments.
"Mmmm", I say. "I like being ahead".
I apologise for having left one of the crates on my desk, because it is too heavy to lift. New Boss responds entirely predictably (he is a Northern male, let us not forget) and, as if it weighs nothing, hefts said crate off my desk so he can place it tidily with its fellow at the side of the office. He doesn't appear to be using the Council's approved Manual Handling techniques! Goodness me, I hope he hasn't damaged his back.
I sweep a cloth over my now pristine desk, and tuck my chair underneath it. New Boss and Line Manager are now standing at my back, chatting. "All done," I say as I pass them on my way out of the office, intending (did they but know it) not to return for at least a month. "All packed away"
It's not very Stepford Employee, but I can't resist a Parthian shot; and as I disappear through the door, I send a few words floating back to them.
"It's as if I never even existed."
Tuesday 19 June 2012
Tomorrow is Another Day
My not-so-little teenage niece texts me today. It's curious because when I saw her up in Scotland two weeks ago, she barely said a word to me; skulking morosely behind a curtain of dyed black hair and never unplugging herself from her iPod. Now she is sending me texts saying "I love you" and ending "xoxoxoxoxox".
Obviously it is easier for her to put things in writing than to say them. And I suppose that counts for most people, including myself.
Because today I have lunch with Lynn - fellow public sector employee with many similarly Stepford characteristics ie the ability to look attractive and say one thing, while thinking another thing entirely. And like myself, she is currently undergoing a number of - ahem - challenges to this persona because (also like me) she is managed by An Insecure Egotist! A lethal combination.
I enjoy ninety minutes in Lynn's company and I would estimate that at least 50% of this is spent laughing. On parting, we vow to do it again and SOON. But I don't actually tell her how much I like her. Instead, later than day, I edit her contact details on my mobile phone, by changing her name from "Lynn Black" to "Lynn Inner Circle" (the tweak I give to the names of people I feel totally safe with).
Once back in my office, I text a couple of other friends, and then take a call from someone asking me to go into prison to give a talk. Weird! I had a call only this morning, from someone asking me to go into the other prison in our region. My phone rings again - it is my young friend Frances who is meeting me later for coffee, and then coming to a Support Group meeting with me. And then there is the ongoing text chat with my niece...
All this takes up some time, and leaves me with about an hour to do a long list of work tasks. Yikes ! Now I am no longer a hopeless, pitiful workaholic; the requirements of my paid employment have dropped so far down my list of priorities that they have almost fallen off it. Which I believe is the way to get handed one's P45.
So I beaver away industriously, but despite my end-of-day efforts, I fail to get round to the one task I meant to complete. The one which has been on my to-do list for - oh dear - over a week now.
Oh well.
The sky hasn't fallen in.
And there's always tomorrow...
Obviously it is easier for her to put things in writing than to say them. And I suppose that counts for most people, including myself.
Because today I have lunch with Lynn - fellow public sector employee with many similarly Stepford characteristics ie the ability to look attractive and say one thing, while thinking another thing entirely. And like myself, she is currently undergoing a number of - ahem - challenges to this persona because (also like me) she is managed by An Insecure Egotist! A lethal combination.
I enjoy ninety minutes in Lynn's company and I would estimate that at least 50% of this is spent laughing. On parting, we vow to do it again and SOON. But I don't actually tell her how much I like her. Instead, later than day, I edit her contact details on my mobile phone, by changing her name from "Lynn Black" to "Lynn Inner Circle" (the tweak I give to the names of people I feel totally safe with).
Once back in my office, I text a couple of other friends, and then take a call from someone asking me to go into prison to give a talk. Weird! I had a call only this morning, from someone asking me to go into the other prison in our region. My phone rings again - it is my young friend Frances who is meeting me later for coffee, and then coming to a Support Group meeting with me. And then there is the ongoing text chat with my niece...
All this takes up some time, and leaves me with about an hour to do a long list of work tasks. Yikes ! Now I am no longer a hopeless, pitiful workaholic; the requirements of my paid employment have dropped so far down my list of priorities that they have almost fallen off it. Which I believe is the way to get handed one's P45.
So I beaver away industriously, but despite my end-of-day efforts, I fail to get round to the one task I meant to complete. The one which has been on my to-do list for - oh dear - over a week now.
Oh well.
The sky hasn't fallen in.
And there's always tomorrow...
Missing out
Another evening at rehearsal, during which we run the second act in its entirety.
The whole cast is present, and I feel slightly nervous. But it is a normal nervousness - nothing like the crippling panic and anxiety which assail me periodically in the workplace. And once we get started, I feel completely at ease and everything flows fairly comfortably.
There are some very witty and clever people appearing in this play. But they have stronger nerves than I, as many are still working from the book and opening night is not very far away....
After the rehearsal ends, I do my usual Cinderella act - calling "byyeeee!" to everyone else as they head down to the bar and I rush off to catch my train. Arriving at my destination I exit the station wearing my iPod.
A chip flies past my shoulder.
Wha...??
I turn to see husband and Mike (another member of our support group), who have been standing waiting for me; and whom I have managed neither to see, nor to hear.
It is a lovely surprise, and we all stand eating chips and chatting for about twenty minutes. They have both been to a meeting of our support group. I have a service position with this group, but for the past three weeks I have had to hand it over to someone else because I am working on the play.
Husband and Mike say the meeting tonight was amazing - funny, powerful, moving. Husband says the sense of camaraderie was overwhelming. Later that night my young friend Leslie rings, and she too tells me how wonderful she found the meeting. I tell her I wish I had been there.
I used to feel afraid I might miss out on the best of what life had to offer - that I had to stay up late; and hang around with this group or that; and go to this bar or this club; or I wasn't really living.
I didn't realise that eventually I would find what I was looking for by sitting in church halls, community centres and mental hospitals. Listening to other people talking.
The whole cast is present, and I feel slightly nervous. But it is a normal nervousness - nothing like the crippling panic and anxiety which assail me periodically in the workplace. And once we get started, I feel completely at ease and everything flows fairly comfortably.
There are some very witty and clever people appearing in this play. But they have stronger nerves than I, as many are still working from the book and opening night is not very far away....
After the rehearsal ends, I do my usual Cinderella act - calling "byyeeee!" to everyone else as they head down to the bar and I rush off to catch my train. Arriving at my destination I exit the station wearing my iPod.
A chip flies past my shoulder.
Wha...??
I turn to see husband and Mike (another member of our support group), who have been standing waiting for me; and whom I have managed neither to see, nor to hear.
It is a lovely surprise, and we all stand eating chips and chatting for about twenty minutes. They have both been to a meeting of our support group. I have a service position with this group, but for the past three weeks I have had to hand it over to someone else because I am working on the play.
Husband and Mike say the meeting tonight was amazing - funny, powerful, moving. Husband says the sense of camaraderie was overwhelming. Later that night my young friend Leslie rings, and she too tells me how wonderful she found the meeting. I tell her I wish I had been there.
I used to feel afraid I might miss out on the best of what life had to offer - that I had to stay up late; and hang around with this group or that; and go to this bar or this club; or I wasn't really living.
I didn't realise that eventually I would find what I was looking for by sitting in church halls, community centres and mental hospitals. Listening to other people talking.
Flight not Fight
If I had my way, I would never set foot in the main office ever again.
But alas, sometimes I just have to.
I sneak in at about noon to print off some documents, only to have Ex-Army Man spy me. He comes over and harrumphs noisily at my shoulder, forcing me to take note of him.
Ex-Army Man has (appropriately) been put in charge of our impending office move. As one might imagine, this is bringing out all his most military characteristics and as I turn to face him, I have to struggle not to salute him.
With much portentous shuffling of papers, drawing of diagrams, and posturing in ramrod style, Ex-Army Man advises me that our interim home for the next month (we are being forced out prematurely, due to the drilling noises from below) will be on the floor above, but that sadly there will not be space for a desk for me. Could I please remain in my own satellite office for the foreseeable future?
O joy! O rapture !!
I have a legitimate excuse not to come over to the Town Hall !!!
I could bleat about the fact that I have been singled out - but I don't.
I could explain that this will make it harder to deliver my work programme - but I don't.
I could say LOTS of things - but I don't.
I just agree.
Later on, while I am still sitting in the main office, New Boss appears briefly at the far end. I keep my head down and focus on my work, and he disappears again without bothering me.
I could tap on his door, and politely request once again that he refer me to Occupational Health - but I don't.
For the time being, I will reduce my Situational Anxiety by the simple method of not triggering it in the first place. By fleeing back to my Safe Zone and relinquishing the fantasy that my employers are going to offer me support.
Because in this instance, Discretion is most certainly the better part of Valour.
But alas, sometimes I just have to.
I sneak in at about noon to print off some documents, only to have Ex-Army Man spy me. He comes over and harrumphs noisily at my shoulder, forcing me to take note of him.
Ex-Army Man has (appropriately) been put in charge of our impending office move. As one might imagine, this is bringing out all his most military characteristics and as I turn to face him, I have to struggle not to salute him.
With much portentous shuffling of papers, drawing of diagrams, and posturing in ramrod style, Ex-Army Man advises me that our interim home for the next month (we are being forced out prematurely, due to the drilling noises from below) will be on the floor above, but that sadly there will not be space for a desk for me. Could I please remain in my own satellite office for the foreseeable future?
O joy! O rapture !!
I have a legitimate excuse not to come over to the Town Hall !!!
I could bleat about the fact that I have been singled out - but I don't.
I could explain that this will make it harder to deliver my work programme - but I don't.
I could say LOTS of things - but I don't.
I just agree.
Later on, while I am still sitting in the main office, New Boss appears briefly at the far end. I keep my head down and focus on my work, and he disappears again without bothering me.
I could tap on his door, and politely request once again that he refer me to Occupational Health - but I don't.
For the time being, I will reduce my Situational Anxiety by the simple method of not triggering it in the first place. By fleeing back to my Safe Zone and relinquishing the fantasy that my employers are going to offer me support.
Because in this instance, Discretion is most certainly the better part of Valour.
Monday 18 June 2012
Fight not Flight
Today I spend the whole afternoon being trained in basic stage fighting by a professional fight director.
!!!
Slightly out of the ordinary, even given my new-found determination to try lots of new and challenging things. I am quite good at the feigned "dummy punches", hairpulling and strangling. But I am absolutely HOPELESS at the stomach punch, which involves actually touching my opponent.
My partner in this exercise is an ethereal-looking girl with a heart-shaped face and drifts of soft brown hair. Despite her telling me repeatedly that a sharp slap with the back of my hand on her abdomen does not hurt her, I cannot bring myself to make physical contact.
Things are getting frustrating, when I suddenly realise that all I have to do is imagine that it is my sociopathic work colleague Remora standing in front of me.
Success !!
I return to my assault with renewed vigour, and the room now resounds with my noisy slaps to her stomach. Later, when we return to the hairpulling, I add a bit of dialogue to make things convincing. My delightfully feminine partner is suddenly startled to hear me call her an "evil f***ing bitch" as I give the illusion of shaking her head violently from side to side.
Wow. It's so cathartic !
It is almost disappointing when we finish the fighting and start rehearsals...
!!!
Slightly out of the ordinary, even given my new-found determination to try lots of new and challenging things. I am quite good at the feigned "dummy punches", hairpulling and strangling. But I am absolutely HOPELESS at the stomach punch, which involves actually touching my opponent.
My partner in this exercise is an ethereal-looking girl with a heart-shaped face and drifts of soft brown hair. Despite her telling me repeatedly that a sharp slap with the back of my hand on her abdomen does not hurt her, I cannot bring myself to make physical contact.
Things are getting frustrating, when I suddenly realise that all I have to do is imagine that it is my sociopathic work colleague Remora standing in front of me.
Success !!
I return to my assault with renewed vigour, and the room now resounds with my noisy slaps to her stomach. Later, when we return to the hairpulling, I add a bit of dialogue to make things convincing. My delightfully feminine partner is suddenly startled to hear me call her an "evil f***ing bitch" as I give the illusion of shaking her head violently from side to side.
Wow. It's so cathartic !
It is almost disappointing when we finish the fighting and start rehearsals...
Saturday 16 June 2012
Such a perfect day
I have had a wonderful, ordinary, joyful day.
Brunch to start with, in the company of my stylish friend Jo, who regales me with amusing descriptions of an event she recently attended. It is while listening to her that I am reminded of New Boss's recent behaviour (mainly because it dawns on me that neither Jo, nor I, nor anyone we know would dream of telling someone what they think and feel is "silly").
When I share the events of yesterday afternoon with Jo, she comes out with another of her insightful flashes of brilliance. "The problem with your New Boss," she says, "is that he actually believes he is good at dealing with people's problems".
Yes, of course! Now everything starts to make sense. It is not that New Boss is an insensitive, clumsy twat (despite him managing to do an extremely good impression of such). He clearly considers he has the capability and finesse to deal with my issues; and that by not "responding" in a grateful way, and unburdening myself therapeutically upon him, I am being obstructive and difficult.
Oh dear. It's hard to imagine how I am going to interact with someone who has such a flawed vision of themselves. But there is really no point continuing to feel vexed with someone who simply does not speak the same language I do....
Jo and I head off to a meeting of our support group. The main speaker is inspirational - steady and full of wisdom. Sitting directly behind us is a young woman at her first ever meeting. She speaks at the end - briefly, but with tremulous emotion. I suddenly feel so moved by her courage that I have to drop my head and compose myself.
My husband has come along to the meeting too, and sits next to Jo so that there is some separation between us (we don't like to present ourselves as a couple, preferring to interact with people as individual members). So only after the meeting has ended do we finally talk to each other. We then walk all the way home.
I only have a couple of hours here - during which I manage to fit in lunch, all the ironing, and a short snooze on the sofa - before I have to head out again to the community event. My husband has decided this is not the way he wants to spend a Saturday evening and stays in to watch football. I walk to the venue, arriving in time to help set up. After over two hours of singing, shaking the tambourine, chatting to fellow members of the choir, and laughing quite a lot; I join the team helping to clear up, before finally heading home.
If I were to try and explain why it has been such a good day, I would end up using words like:
- connection
- friendship
- laughter
- insight
- understanding
- inspiration
- community
- harmony
A number of these words are applicable to aspects of my job and many of my working relationships. Which is great. And that's what I have to focus upon; not the people who generate an entirely separate vocabulary.
When I was walking back this evening, I passed a bar where groups of people had spilled out onto the pavement. They were noisy, flirtatious, edgy, slightly aggressive and a lot out-of-control. But they didn't bother me and I didn't bother them. And it struck me that there is room for all of us on this planet. As long as we learn to leave each other well alone.
Brunch to start with, in the company of my stylish friend Jo, who regales me with amusing descriptions of an event she recently attended. It is while listening to her that I am reminded of New Boss's recent behaviour (mainly because it dawns on me that neither Jo, nor I, nor anyone we know would dream of telling someone what they think and feel is "silly").
When I share the events of yesterday afternoon with Jo, she comes out with another of her insightful flashes of brilliance. "The problem with your New Boss," she says, "is that he actually believes he is good at dealing with people's problems".
Yes, of course! Now everything starts to make sense. It is not that New Boss is an insensitive, clumsy twat (despite him managing to do an extremely good impression of such). He clearly considers he has the capability and finesse to deal with my issues; and that by not "responding" in a grateful way, and unburdening myself therapeutically upon him, I am being obstructive and difficult.
Oh dear. It's hard to imagine how I am going to interact with someone who has such a flawed vision of themselves. But there is really no point continuing to feel vexed with someone who simply does not speak the same language I do....
Jo and I head off to a meeting of our support group. The main speaker is inspirational - steady and full of wisdom. Sitting directly behind us is a young woman at her first ever meeting. She speaks at the end - briefly, but with tremulous emotion. I suddenly feel so moved by her courage that I have to drop my head and compose myself.
My husband has come along to the meeting too, and sits next to Jo so that there is some separation between us (we don't like to present ourselves as a couple, preferring to interact with people as individual members). So only after the meeting has ended do we finally talk to each other. We then walk all the way home.
I only have a couple of hours here - during which I manage to fit in lunch, all the ironing, and a short snooze on the sofa - before I have to head out again to the community event. My husband has decided this is not the way he wants to spend a Saturday evening and stays in to watch football. I walk to the venue, arriving in time to help set up. After over two hours of singing, shaking the tambourine, chatting to fellow members of the choir, and laughing quite a lot; I join the team helping to clear up, before finally heading home.
If I were to try and explain why it has been such a good day, I would end up using words like:
- connection
- friendship
- laughter
- insight
- understanding
- inspiration
- community
- harmony
A number of these words are applicable to aspects of my job and many of my working relationships. Which is great. And that's what I have to focus upon; not the people who generate an entirely separate vocabulary.
When I was walking back this evening, I passed a bar where groups of people had spilled out onto the pavement. They were noisy, flirtatious, edgy, slightly aggressive and a lot out-of-control. But they didn't bother me and I didn't bother them. And it struck me that there is room for all of us on this planet. As long as we learn to leave each other well alone.
Friday 15 June 2012
Silly Billy
I go and see my doctor, prefacing my appearance with all the usual apologies for having bothered him yet again. Fortunately (because he is an outstandingly good GP) he listens patiently to my description of continuing symptoms, and then questions me about the circumstances in which these tend to re-appear.
His conclusion?
"You do not have a mental illness" (Hooray!)
"You are suffering from Situational Anxiety relating to your working environment" (?? I vow to google it the second I get home)
"Medication won't help you" (Hooray again !!)
"I recommend that you consider a course of cognitive behavioural therapy to help reduce your feelings of anxiety around the workplace" (sigh. Yes Doctor).
He advises me to tell New Boss of his recommendations. I make a face. Doctor suggests that I make an assumption that New Boss is a decent person who will observe confidentiality (one of my concerns). I say I will think about it.
Later that day, I have a working lunch with Erica - a woman I deeply admire (dedicated, passionate, and with unshakeable values) and we are joined for a coffee by Rebecca - a woman whose vivacity, wit and sparky intelligence always cheer me up. If it wasn't for working with people like this, I would have been straitjacketed away from my job a year ago. So I thoroughly enjoy myself and it is in a very positive frame of mind that I finally head over to the Town Hall for my 4pm meeting with Line Manager and New Boss.
The former is late returning from a meeting elsewhere, leaving New Boss and I sitting uneasily in each other's company. Mindful of what my doctor has advised, I explain briefly to New Boss that my GP has recommended I undertake some therapy to help me cope with some workplace anxieties. I don't make a big drama out of it. To place this discussion into context, New Boss is well aware that I was signed off work for five weeks earlier in the year due to "work-related stress".
New Boss wears an expression of bafflement (which potentially serves as A Clue As To What Is To Come, except that I am too stupid to register its meaning). He asks me to give him an example of what anxieties I am talking about, having earlier assured me that I can talk to him freely.
I pick as an example the departmental meeting of two weeks previously, explaining that because it was held in an unfamiliar venue, and because I ended up sitting directly opposite colleagues who have gone out of their way to be unpleasant towards me, I felt extremely unsafe and anxious throughout the meeting.
Now New Boss has many options at this point. He could say:
- "well, I'm sorry to hear that"
- "is there anything I can do to make things easier for you?"
- "sorry, I'm not sure I understand".
What New Boss actually says is:
"That's just silly".
I have undergone considerable management training while in my present employ, and sadly all this has served to do is to highlight the ghastly management failures which surround me. And here we go again! Because funnily enough, I don't recall "that's just silly" being the recommended response to a member of staff who is telling you their GP is monitoring their anxiety!!!
Here are MY options at this point:
- "are you really as big a clown as you pretend to be?"
- "I am going to have to make a formal complaint about what you have just said"
- "sorry, I'm not sure I understand".
What Real Woman (because Stepford Employee has just run out of the door, screaming hysterically) actually says is:
"that is a terrible response. You have just completely trivialised the way I am feeling. Do not expect me to ever tell you anything about myself ever again".
Does New Boss apologise? Does New Boss say he doesn't know what came over him? Does New Boss offer up the slightest justification for coming out with his cretinous, insensitive drivel?
Sorry - that's not a challenging enough question is it?
Because you're spot on - NEW BOSS DOES NONE OF THESE THINGS !!!
New Boss spends a fruitless 2 minutes attempting to shift the blame onto Real Woman, blustering that if she chooses to misinterpret the words "that's just silly", then there clearly is something as wrong with her as he has always supposed.
The only beneficiary from this whole sorry saga is Line Manager.
At this point he joins the meeting; and so grateful am I to be interrupted, that I greet him with something vaguely akin to warmth. I then switch the discussion onto my area of work and keep it there until I can gracefully make my escape. With fabulous good fortune (because we have ended up sitting in the main Town Hall reception, due to unavailability of rooms) two senior male colleagues from other departments pass, enabling me to chat and flirt with them animatedly and stop interacting with New Boss entirely.
As I have clearly now drawn the meeting to a close, New Boss stomps off in an apparent fit of pique, and as he disappears back towards his own office, I call "thank yooooooo" sweetly after his retreating back.
Later I tell the story to a group of friends. They goggle in disbelief at New Boss's inanity. One of them asks what I will say if he makes another attempt to "engage" with me.
"That's easy," I say. "I'll tell him not to be so silly".
His conclusion?
"You do not have a mental illness" (Hooray!)
"You are suffering from Situational Anxiety relating to your working environment" (?? I vow to google it the second I get home)
"Medication won't help you" (Hooray again !!)
"I recommend that you consider a course of cognitive behavioural therapy to help reduce your feelings of anxiety around the workplace" (sigh. Yes Doctor).
He advises me to tell New Boss of his recommendations. I make a face. Doctor suggests that I make an assumption that New Boss is a decent person who will observe confidentiality (one of my concerns). I say I will think about it.
Later that day, I have a working lunch with Erica - a woman I deeply admire (dedicated, passionate, and with unshakeable values) and we are joined for a coffee by Rebecca - a woman whose vivacity, wit and sparky intelligence always cheer me up. If it wasn't for working with people like this, I would have been straitjacketed away from my job a year ago. So I thoroughly enjoy myself and it is in a very positive frame of mind that I finally head over to the Town Hall for my 4pm meeting with Line Manager and New Boss.
The former is late returning from a meeting elsewhere, leaving New Boss and I sitting uneasily in each other's company. Mindful of what my doctor has advised, I explain briefly to New Boss that my GP has recommended I undertake some therapy to help me cope with some workplace anxieties. I don't make a big drama out of it. To place this discussion into context, New Boss is well aware that I was signed off work for five weeks earlier in the year due to "work-related stress".
New Boss wears an expression of bafflement (which potentially serves as A Clue As To What Is To Come, except that I am too stupid to register its meaning). He asks me to give him an example of what anxieties I am talking about, having earlier assured me that I can talk to him freely.
I pick as an example the departmental meeting of two weeks previously, explaining that because it was held in an unfamiliar venue, and because I ended up sitting directly opposite colleagues who have gone out of their way to be unpleasant towards me, I felt extremely unsafe and anxious throughout the meeting.
Now New Boss has many options at this point. He could say:
- "well, I'm sorry to hear that"
- "is there anything I can do to make things easier for you?"
- "sorry, I'm not sure I understand".
What New Boss actually says is:
"That's just silly".
I have undergone considerable management training while in my present employ, and sadly all this has served to do is to highlight the ghastly management failures which surround me. And here we go again! Because funnily enough, I don't recall "that's just silly" being the recommended response to a member of staff who is telling you their GP is monitoring their anxiety!!!
Here are MY options at this point:
- "are you really as big a clown as you pretend to be?"
- "I am going to have to make a formal complaint about what you have just said"
- "sorry, I'm not sure I understand".
What Real Woman (because Stepford Employee has just run out of the door, screaming hysterically) actually says is:
"that is a terrible response. You have just completely trivialised the way I am feeling. Do not expect me to ever tell you anything about myself ever again".
Does New Boss apologise? Does New Boss say he doesn't know what came over him? Does New Boss offer up the slightest justification for coming out with his cretinous, insensitive drivel?
Sorry - that's not a challenging enough question is it?
Because you're spot on - NEW BOSS DOES NONE OF THESE THINGS !!!
New Boss spends a fruitless 2 minutes attempting to shift the blame onto Real Woman, blustering that if she chooses to misinterpret the words "that's just silly", then there clearly is something as wrong with her as he has always supposed.
The only beneficiary from this whole sorry saga is Line Manager.
At this point he joins the meeting; and so grateful am I to be interrupted, that I greet him with something vaguely akin to warmth. I then switch the discussion onto my area of work and keep it there until I can gracefully make my escape. With fabulous good fortune (because we have ended up sitting in the main Town Hall reception, due to unavailability of rooms) two senior male colleagues from other departments pass, enabling me to chat and flirt with them animatedly and stop interacting with New Boss entirely.
As I have clearly now drawn the meeting to a close, New Boss stomps off in an apparent fit of pique, and as he disappears back towards his own office, I call "thank yooooooo" sweetly after his retreating back.
Later I tell the story to a group of friends. They goggle in disbelief at New Boss's inanity. One of them asks what I will say if he makes another attempt to "engage" with me.
"That's easy," I say. "I'll tell him not to be so silly".
Thursday 14 June 2012
The Losing of Ventures
I really really do not want to pursue the mediation process in relation to Line Manager. But I am "caught het" as my husband would say. Because I am the one who asked for this in the first place.
So now I feel completely trapped, and that I have no option but to continue.
My reasons for wanting to discontinue are not based on "apprehension" as Personnel would have it. It is more a case of apathy.
1. I first asked for mediation in September 2010. At the time the organisation was not willing to pay for it.
2. Things between Line Manager and myself continued to deteriorate, culminating in a horrible incident last September.
3. Following a protracted grievance process that, while found in my favour, caused me so much stress I suffered a Mental Health Episode; I was assured in March 2012 that mediation would be arranged as soon as possible.
4. Nothing happened for weeks, and now are limping along so slowly that mediation is now being proposed for the end of July.
What to say to Personnel and the Hierarchy now?
"There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat,
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures"....?
I feel that we all managed to miss this tide approximately two years ago, and that if I take it now, I will be swept away to a country I no longer have much interest in visiting.
Personnel email me the telephone number of the "mediator", suggesting that I call her for reassurance. In order to show willing, I ring said number later that day.
Almost every interaction is governed by someone's agenda. Mediator appears pleasant, brisk and helpful; but - let's face it ! - this gig represents paid employment and an entree to one of London's most highly rated local authorities. So when she advises me to go ahead as it is not going to make things any worse, I want to start doing my "mmm" thing.
But because she speaks intelligently and directly, I end up telling her exactly why mediation has started to seem pointless.
- I am fairly happy with the newly drawn relationship with Line Manager (distant, work-focused, professional)
- I have no interest in developing a closer bond with him
- I have absolutely no confidence he will maintain confidentiality about the proceedings
- above all, I believe he will divulge information to someone I really don't want to know anything about me (nb: Remora - my implacable enemy for the past 4 years)
- mediation will involve me exposing myself and becoming vulnerable
- the very thought of this makes me feel breathless and anxious
- I've lost sight of why I ever wanted to go through the process in the first place.
At the end of this monologue, Mediator says it is entirely up to me (well, yes. It is). But she picks up on my comment that I feel completely isolated from everyone I work with. And observes that clearly I have totally withdrawn in order to protect myself.
Protecting myself is now my primary consideration when in the proximity of a Certain Group of People. It's not what I first envisaged when I took up a job in local government - an environment I imagined to be insular, safe and friendly.
Who knew?
So now I feel completely trapped, and that I have no option but to continue.
My reasons for wanting to discontinue are not based on "apprehension" as Personnel would have it. It is more a case of apathy.
1. I first asked for mediation in September 2010. At the time the organisation was not willing to pay for it.
2. Things between Line Manager and myself continued to deteriorate, culminating in a horrible incident last September.
3. Following a protracted grievance process that, while found in my favour, caused me so much stress I suffered a Mental Health Episode; I was assured in March 2012 that mediation would be arranged as soon as possible.
4. Nothing happened for weeks, and now are limping along so slowly that mediation is now being proposed for the end of July.
What to say to Personnel and the Hierarchy now?
"There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat,
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures"....?
I feel that we all managed to miss this tide approximately two years ago, and that if I take it now, I will be swept away to a country I no longer have much interest in visiting.
Personnel email me the telephone number of the "mediator", suggesting that I call her for reassurance. In order to show willing, I ring said number later that day.
Almost every interaction is governed by someone's agenda. Mediator appears pleasant, brisk and helpful; but - let's face it ! - this gig represents paid employment and an entree to one of London's most highly rated local authorities. So when she advises me to go ahead as it is not going to make things any worse, I want to start doing my "mmm" thing.
But because she speaks intelligently and directly, I end up telling her exactly why mediation has started to seem pointless.
- I am fairly happy with the newly drawn relationship with Line Manager (distant, work-focused, professional)
- I have no interest in developing a closer bond with him
- I have absolutely no confidence he will maintain confidentiality about the proceedings
- above all, I believe he will divulge information to someone I really don't want to know anything about me (nb: Remora - my implacable enemy for the past 4 years)
- mediation will involve me exposing myself and becoming vulnerable
- the very thought of this makes me feel breathless and anxious
- I've lost sight of why I ever wanted to go through the process in the first place.
At the end of this monologue, Mediator says it is entirely up to me (well, yes. It is). But she picks up on my comment that I feel completely isolated from everyone I work with. And observes that clearly I have totally withdrawn in order to protect myself.
Protecting myself is now my primary consideration when in the proximity of a Certain Group of People. It's not what I first envisaged when I took up a job in local government - an environment I imagined to be insular, safe and friendly.
Who knew?
I know not "seems"
My young friend Leslie rings for a chat (she has asked me to support her on her journey towards "normality", little realising that she is also helping me, and far more than she will ever know). Leslie asks if people sometimes treat me in a distant manner based on how I look and talk. I burst out laughing.
"Oh God, YES!" I tell her. "All the time!!"
This even happens with members of my support group. Frequently, when I am giving the main talk at a meeting, someone kindly takes the trouble to inform me that when they first met me they felt instant loathing because I appeared to be someone without a care in the world.
I guess I shouldn't be altogether surprised that this reaction to me is replicated endlessly as I go through life, and most especially in the workplace. I have no defence against it. But I have never quite worked out how I so successfully manage to hide what is actually going on inside my head.
"So may the outward shows be least themselves....."
Two examples within the past 24 hours:
1) I receive a call on my personal mobile from a "gentleman" (I use the term loosely) who works for a local estate agents. He is attempting to discuss a matter which is currently being handled by my solicitor. I remind him of this and state that I won't be commenting. He becomes unpleasant and makes silly meaningless threats. I terminate the phone call.
Impression given:
That I am fully in control, that I know my own mind, that I won't be bullied
Reality:
I develop severe anxiety and breathlessness during the phone call, struggle to control my voice, and afterwards my hands shake for 20 minutes.
2) My office phone rings and when I pick it up, I hear Line Manager's voice on the end of it. He asks me about a work matter. I respond as helpfully and politely as I can, but using the minimum of words. I ask if there is anything else, and when the answer is negative, say goodbye.
Impression given:
That I am professional and courteous, but continuing to maintain a cool distance from Line Manager.
Reality:
I feel troubled, anxious and unsettled; my responses feel unnatural and weird; and I am extremely relieved when the phone call comes to an end.
Why I should struggle with my portrayal of Stepford Employee is quite beyond me, as I am evidently adept at seeming to cope with life. But my responses do not denote me truly.
"these indeed seem
For they are actions that a man might play;"
Maybe I would be more popular if I revealed what was going on inside my head.
But I doubt I would survive for very long.
"Oh God, YES!" I tell her. "All the time!!"
This even happens with members of my support group. Frequently, when I am giving the main talk at a meeting, someone kindly takes the trouble to inform me that when they first met me they felt instant loathing because I appeared to be someone without a care in the world.
I guess I shouldn't be altogether surprised that this reaction to me is replicated endlessly as I go through life, and most especially in the workplace. I have no defence against it. But I have never quite worked out how I so successfully manage to hide what is actually going on inside my head.
"So may the outward shows be least themselves....."
Two examples within the past 24 hours:
1) I receive a call on my personal mobile from a "gentleman" (I use the term loosely) who works for a local estate agents. He is attempting to discuss a matter which is currently being handled by my solicitor. I remind him of this and state that I won't be commenting. He becomes unpleasant and makes silly meaningless threats. I terminate the phone call.
Impression given:
That I am fully in control, that I know my own mind, that I won't be bullied
Reality:
I develop severe anxiety and breathlessness during the phone call, struggle to control my voice, and afterwards my hands shake for 20 minutes.
2) My office phone rings and when I pick it up, I hear Line Manager's voice on the end of it. He asks me about a work matter. I respond as helpfully and politely as I can, but using the minimum of words. I ask if there is anything else, and when the answer is negative, say goodbye.
Impression given:
That I am professional and courteous, but continuing to maintain a cool distance from Line Manager.
Reality:
I feel troubled, anxious and unsettled; my responses feel unnatural and weird; and I am extremely relieved when the phone call comes to an end.
Why I should struggle with my portrayal of Stepford Employee is quite beyond me, as I am evidently adept at seeming to cope with life. But my responses do not denote me truly.
"these indeed seem
For they are actions that a man might play;"
Maybe I would be more popular if I revealed what was going on inside my head.
But I doubt I would survive for very long.
Wednesday 13 June 2012
Dancing Queens...
Due to various people (the organiser, me) being on holiday, I haven't been along to a community choir rehearsal for about three weeks. Even though I have a headache and feel very tired, I exert myself to get changed out of my work clothes and head over to the practice room. Already I feel completely at home among this group, many of whom are retired ladies.
We are finalising our "numbers" for the community sing-a-long event this Saturday. The soloist for one of the numbers pops in and we sing our harmonised accompaniment as she belts out the tune in professional bluesy style. Later, we sing our Russian monastic chant with its thrilling discordancies, and when it finishes there is a slight silence as we realise we are actually managing to sound rather good !
While I have been away, volunteers have been sought for a comedic dance number. Another of the formidable, talented, powerful ladies who drive this choir has choreographed this, which involves the shaking of tambourines and men wearing skirts (always a Dead Cert hit!). I stay behind to watch them practice, and get roped in to participate. I really don't feel it fair to take part in the actual performance, given that they have already been working on it for two weeks, but it is such fun to join in - even for a few practice rounds!
When I was at university I was lead singer in a band (like a million others). I wasn't a particularly good singer, but I was good at wearing suitably outrageous clothes, and I was smokin' on the tambourine! So for 15 glorious minutes, I wave it around, fall over my feet, and giggle along with everyone else.
But - as with everything - with repeated practice, it all starts to come together...
I get home about 10pm, and my husband remarks on my uplifted mood. I tell him what we got up to at choir, and even demonstrate a few steps. I then suggest he comes along this Saturday. He looks askance.
Husband: "What's it all about again?"
Me: "It's a community sing-a-long. We're going to be performing a few songs. And doing a tambourine dance. And then everyone is going to join in with lots of other songs, and we'll have a picnic and a really good laugh".
Husband shudders faintly. "I am going out. With Friend".
Me: "Really? You didn't mention that to me".
Husband: "I haven't mentioned it to him yet......."
We are finalising our "numbers" for the community sing-a-long event this Saturday. The soloist for one of the numbers pops in and we sing our harmonised accompaniment as she belts out the tune in professional bluesy style. Later, we sing our Russian monastic chant with its thrilling discordancies, and when it finishes there is a slight silence as we realise we are actually managing to sound rather good !
While I have been away, volunteers have been sought for a comedic dance number. Another of the formidable, talented, powerful ladies who drive this choir has choreographed this, which involves the shaking of tambourines and men wearing skirts (always a Dead Cert hit!). I stay behind to watch them practice, and get roped in to participate. I really don't feel it fair to take part in the actual performance, given that they have already been working on it for two weeks, but it is such fun to join in - even for a few practice rounds!
When I was at university I was lead singer in a band (like a million others). I wasn't a particularly good singer, but I was good at wearing suitably outrageous clothes, and I was smokin' on the tambourine! So for 15 glorious minutes, I wave it around, fall over my feet, and giggle along with everyone else.
But - as with everything - with repeated practice, it all starts to come together...
I get home about 10pm, and my husband remarks on my uplifted mood. I tell him what we got up to at choir, and even demonstrate a few steps. I then suggest he comes along this Saturday. He looks askance.
Husband: "What's it all about again?"
Me: "It's a community sing-a-long. We're going to be performing a few songs. And doing a tambourine dance. And then everyone is going to join in with lots of other songs, and we'll have a picnic and a really good laugh".
Husband shudders faintly. "I am going out. With Friend".
Me: "Really? You didn't mention that to me".
Husband: "I haven't mentioned it to him yet......."
Stepford Employee Wears the Wrong Footwear
My first day back post-leave, and I materialise in the main office in good time for my bi-monthly "management meeting" with Line Manager and New Boss.
One slight snag - neither of them are in the office. Wha??? I maintain my usual discretion ie I do not discuss the matter with colleagues, but casually flip through the pages of the signing-out book, looking for A Clue. Nuffink. Nada. None the wiser.
I am therefore forced to admit defeat and make enquiry of Maternal Colleague. Whereupon I am advised that New Boss and Line Manager departed some half an hour previously, for pastures unknown.
Oh.
There is building work going on elsewhere in the Town Hall, and the sound of drilling in the office is unendurable. So I decide to hotfoot it back to my nice quiet little office before the two managers return. I have just pressed "send" on my polite, slightly wounded, email letting them know I have now given up waiting for them and left, when they walk back into the office together through the far door.
Foiled again!
Blast and damnation.
I switch off my computer and grabbing my bag, disappear like a wraith out of the door nearest to me before they have had a chance to spot me. But just as I am on the point of leaving the Town Hall building, my Blackberry beeps and it is New Boss apologising for having forgotten about the meeting - he had relocated his previous meeting with Line Manager due to the noise.
It is quite a nice email, and so I am temporarily lulled into thinking that perhaps I can ask New Boss if he would be willing to refer me to Occupational Health. I've been thinking recently that I might benefit from a review meeting with the doctor, as I have experienced the return of some anxiety symptoms. My flight from the Town Hall is merely indicative of the fact that I am getting phobic about my department again - and as my friends well know, one of my favourite mantras is "Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway" (excellent book. And very practical....) So taking a few deep breaths and trying to settle myself, I make my way back up the stairs and slip into New Boss's office (I have, in fact, tapped on the door; but the drilling is so loud, he has not heard me).
Girding myself in Stepford Employee's loins, I explain I have returned upon seeing his message and that if he and Line Manager are available, I would be happy to hold our meeting imminently (it is now an hour since I first arrived in the office). New Boss says he is not free now. "No problem!" I say. "I will circulate some alternative dates and times".
Despite the drilling noise, which is rattling my thoughts and increasing my sense of nervousness, I am about to broach the subject of an OH referral when New Boss's gaze falls to my legs. He laughs.
"You're wearing wellies" he says.
I should mention that at this point in time, England is half-way through a two-day deluge of Biblical proportions, with rivers bursting their banks, pensioners being ferried along flooded streets in canoes, and wave-dodgers being swept out to sea, never to be seen again.
"It's raining", I reply, despite this seeming a peculiarly superfluous comment as New Boss is presently unable to see out of his own window due to the sheets of water cascading down it.
"But - you're wearing wellies!" he repeats, in the tone of a man who has never seen a woman wearing these items before.
Now this is exactly the kind of scenario which presents Stepford Employee with her most demanding challenges. Because a number of possible responses proliferate, and none of them meet public sector standards. To wit but two:
1) I am wearing wellies because I have just had to schlep over here in torrential rain for a meeting which neither of you two arses could be arsed to put in your arsing diares. And I am now going to have to schlep all the way back, getting even more soaked than I am already (except for my feet, naturally)
2) you seem to have quite an interest in wellington boots! Well, if you google "welly fetish" you will find you are not alone, and you will come across quite a few stimulating websites which should keep you preoccupied on these cold, wet evenings...
Oh God, how did I end up working in the public sector where I have to put up with people saying whatever the f*** they like to me and I am NOT ALLOWED TO SAY WHAT I WANT BACK TO THEM ON PAIN OF DEATH??? How did this happen, O Lord? How, how, how....???
Stepford Employee takes a deep breath. Stepford Employee mentally grabs hold of the little notion which popped up earlier (that of confiding in New Boss). Stepford Employee gently throttles Little Notion until it makes retching noises, drums its heels against the bones of her skull, and loses consciousness. Terminally.
"I have some shoes in my bag," I say politely, wondering why I am required to waste thirty seconds of paid employment justifying my choice of footwear. "Only I changed into my wellies as I was going out in the rain. Will that be all?"
New Boss is still immoderately entertained by my rubbery accoutrements. He barely registers my departure as he is too busy wiping tears of merriment from his eyes.
Later that night, I recite this story to my husband. He seems to find it funny. (Sometimes I think husband demonstrates a Worrying Affinity with New Boss...)
"I made a comment about your wellies this morning," he reminds me.
"That's different," I say. "You're my husband".
I forebear from reminding him that his comments were rather saucy. And that unlike New Boss's, I considered them eminently appropriate. And - ahem - most welcome.
One slight snag - neither of them are in the office. Wha??? I maintain my usual discretion ie I do not discuss the matter with colleagues, but casually flip through the pages of the signing-out book, looking for A Clue. Nuffink. Nada. None the wiser.
I am therefore forced to admit defeat and make enquiry of Maternal Colleague. Whereupon I am advised that New Boss and Line Manager departed some half an hour previously, for pastures unknown.
Oh.
There is building work going on elsewhere in the Town Hall, and the sound of drilling in the office is unendurable. So I decide to hotfoot it back to my nice quiet little office before the two managers return. I have just pressed "send" on my polite, slightly wounded, email letting them know I have now given up waiting for them and left, when they walk back into the office together through the far door.
Foiled again!
Blast and damnation.
I switch off my computer and grabbing my bag, disappear like a wraith out of the door nearest to me before they have had a chance to spot me. But just as I am on the point of leaving the Town Hall building, my Blackberry beeps and it is New Boss apologising for having forgotten about the meeting - he had relocated his previous meeting with Line Manager due to the noise.
It is quite a nice email, and so I am temporarily lulled into thinking that perhaps I can ask New Boss if he would be willing to refer me to Occupational Health. I've been thinking recently that I might benefit from a review meeting with the doctor, as I have experienced the return of some anxiety symptoms. My flight from the Town Hall is merely indicative of the fact that I am getting phobic about my department again - and as my friends well know, one of my favourite mantras is "Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway" (excellent book. And very practical....) So taking a few deep breaths and trying to settle myself, I make my way back up the stairs and slip into New Boss's office (I have, in fact, tapped on the door; but the drilling is so loud, he has not heard me).
Girding myself in Stepford Employee's loins, I explain I have returned upon seeing his message and that if he and Line Manager are available, I would be happy to hold our meeting imminently (it is now an hour since I first arrived in the office). New Boss says he is not free now. "No problem!" I say. "I will circulate some alternative dates and times".
Despite the drilling noise, which is rattling my thoughts and increasing my sense of nervousness, I am about to broach the subject of an OH referral when New Boss's gaze falls to my legs. He laughs.
"You're wearing wellies" he says.
I should mention that at this point in time, England is half-way through a two-day deluge of Biblical proportions, with rivers bursting their banks, pensioners being ferried along flooded streets in canoes, and wave-dodgers being swept out to sea, never to be seen again.
"It's raining", I reply, despite this seeming a peculiarly superfluous comment as New Boss is presently unable to see out of his own window due to the sheets of water cascading down it.
"But - you're wearing wellies!" he repeats, in the tone of a man who has never seen a woman wearing these items before.
Now this is exactly the kind of scenario which presents Stepford Employee with her most demanding challenges. Because a number of possible responses proliferate, and none of them meet public sector standards. To wit but two:
1) I am wearing wellies because I have just had to schlep over here in torrential rain for a meeting which neither of you two arses could be arsed to put in your arsing diares. And I am now going to have to schlep all the way back, getting even more soaked than I am already (except for my feet, naturally)
2) you seem to have quite an interest in wellington boots! Well, if you google "welly fetish" you will find you are not alone, and you will come across quite a few stimulating websites which should keep you preoccupied on these cold, wet evenings...
Oh God, how did I end up working in the public sector where I have to put up with people saying whatever the f*** they like to me and I am NOT ALLOWED TO SAY WHAT I WANT BACK TO THEM ON PAIN OF DEATH??? How did this happen, O Lord? How, how, how....???
Stepford Employee takes a deep breath. Stepford Employee mentally grabs hold of the little notion which popped up earlier (that of confiding in New Boss). Stepford Employee gently throttles Little Notion until it makes retching noises, drums its heels against the bones of her skull, and loses consciousness. Terminally.
"I have some shoes in my bag," I say politely, wondering why I am required to waste thirty seconds of paid employment justifying my choice of footwear. "Only I changed into my wellies as I was going out in the rain. Will that be all?"
New Boss is still immoderately entertained by my rubbery accoutrements. He barely registers my departure as he is too busy wiping tears of merriment from his eyes.
Later that night, I recite this story to my husband. He seems to find it funny. (Sometimes I think husband demonstrates a Worrying Affinity with New Boss...)
"I made a comment about your wellies this morning," he reminds me.
"That's different," I say. "You're my husband".
I forebear from reminding him that his comments were rather saucy. And that unlike New Boss's, I considered them eminently appropriate. And - ahem - most welcome.
Sunday 10 June 2012
Animadversions and Disrespectful Allusions...
On many occasions I start watching a film with my husband, and ten minutes after it has begun he claims that we have seen it before. I always deny having any knowledge of the film in question, despite him being able to a) say what is going to happen b) tell me who dunnit and c) quote imminent bits of dialogue.
I am having similar sensations as I make my way through The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. I would swear I have never read this novel before, but it all seems very familiar somehow. Once I have succumbed to the rhythm of Anne Bronte's writing style (surely some of the longest and most convoluted sentences ever written), I start to have a sense of deja-vu about the relationship between Gilbert Markham and Helen Graham, and the characters surrounding them (the Millwards, Mr Lawrence, Jane and Richard Wilson...).
Is it because I have actually read it, back in the day when literature was my chiefest study...?
Or is it because it plays on themes of alcoholism and temperance?
Or it is because it is so reminiscent of my experience over the past year ?!!?
Here is Gilbert Markham writing of an evening's "entertainment" (a soiree at his mother's house):
"I now recollected having seen Mrs Wilson, in the early part of the evening, edging her chair close up to my mother, and bending forward, evidently in the delivery of some important confidential intelligence; and from the incessant wagging of her head, the frequent distortions of her wrinkled physiognomy, and the winking and malicious twinkle of her little ugly eyes, I judged it was some spicy piece of scandal that engaged her powers; and from the cautious privacy of the communication I supposed some person then present was the luckless object of her calumnies: and from all these tokens, together with my mother's looks and gestures of mingled horror and incredulity, I now concluded that object to have been Mrs Graham."
Now, quite apart from being an excellent example of Anne's looooong sentences, this is also a perfect illustration of what goes on daily in what The Decent People in the office call Whispering Corner ! This is the spot occupied by Spiteful Manager, and frequently visited by The Others (primarily Attention Seeker, Ex-Army Man and Politician's Daughter). So repellent is the incessant sotto-voce hissing which emanates from this quarter, that Former Boss once sent round an email instructing staff to stop whispering. (Not that anyone took any notice, and not that he ever bothered to do anything about it again !)
Gilbert Markham, trying to reassure Mrs Graham in a later scene, advises her:
"..their shallow minds can hold no great ideas, and their light heads are carried away by trivialities that would not move a better-furnished skull; and their only alternative to such discourse is to plunge over head and ears into the slough of scandal - which is their chief delight."
Way to go, Ms Bronte !!
I ponder on the fact that 19th Century literature repeatedly shows The Gossip as someone to be ridiculed, when she is not playing a more sinister role as the poisonous ruiner of lives. From Jane Austen to Mrs Gaskell, these spiteful and malicious characters are universally derided.
In our department, they rule the roost!
Perhaps someday someone will write a book about them.
I am having similar sensations as I make my way through The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. I would swear I have never read this novel before, but it all seems very familiar somehow. Once I have succumbed to the rhythm of Anne Bronte's writing style (surely some of the longest and most convoluted sentences ever written), I start to have a sense of deja-vu about the relationship between Gilbert Markham and Helen Graham, and the characters surrounding them (the Millwards, Mr Lawrence, Jane and Richard Wilson...).
Is it because I have actually read it, back in the day when literature was my chiefest study...?
Or is it because it plays on themes of alcoholism and temperance?
Or it is because it is so reminiscent of my experience over the past year ?!!?
Here is Gilbert Markham writing of an evening's "entertainment" (a soiree at his mother's house):
"I now recollected having seen Mrs Wilson, in the early part of the evening, edging her chair close up to my mother, and bending forward, evidently in the delivery of some important confidential intelligence; and from the incessant wagging of her head, the frequent distortions of her wrinkled physiognomy, and the winking and malicious twinkle of her little ugly eyes, I judged it was some spicy piece of scandal that engaged her powers; and from the cautious privacy of the communication I supposed some person then present was the luckless object of her calumnies: and from all these tokens, together with my mother's looks and gestures of mingled horror and incredulity, I now concluded that object to have been Mrs Graham."
Now, quite apart from being an excellent example of Anne's looooong sentences, this is also a perfect illustration of what goes on daily in what The Decent People in the office call Whispering Corner ! This is the spot occupied by Spiteful Manager, and frequently visited by The Others (primarily Attention Seeker, Ex-Army Man and Politician's Daughter). So repellent is the incessant sotto-voce hissing which emanates from this quarter, that Former Boss once sent round an email instructing staff to stop whispering. (Not that anyone took any notice, and not that he ever bothered to do anything about it again !)
Gilbert Markham, trying to reassure Mrs Graham in a later scene, advises her:
"..their shallow minds can hold no great ideas, and their light heads are carried away by trivialities that would not move a better-furnished skull; and their only alternative to such discourse is to plunge over head and ears into the slough of scandal - which is their chief delight."
Way to go, Ms Bronte !!
I ponder on the fact that 19th Century literature repeatedly shows The Gossip as someone to be ridiculed, when she is not playing a more sinister role as the poisonous ruiner of lives. From Jane Austen to Mrs Gaskell, these spiteful and malicious characters are universally derided.
In our department, they rule the roost!
Perhaps someday someone will write a book about them.
The Swish of the Curtain
Back in London and back to rehearsals. It's the first time the entire cast has got together, rather than working on scenes in separate groups, and for the first time we can see how the whole play is assembled.
It's also the first time we have had a chance to perform on stage as opposed to in a motley assortment of rehearsal rooms.
It's been 25 years since I acted on stage - one of the reasons why I have been careful not to tell anyone I am doing this. I am being evasive with friends who wonder why I am not as available as usual; and I suspect the only audience member I know will turn out to be my mother (bless her). Even my husband has been dissuaded - which I suspect suits him, as amateur theatricals are not really his cup of tea.
But oh ! they are very much MY cup of tea.
I have loved acting ever since I was a child.
When I first set foot in this particular theatre, I felt totally overwhelmed by the feelings of nostalgia and familiarity. And I also felt very sad that I had waited so long to come home. It is my very own Blue Door Theatre Company come to life, populated by older versions of Maddy, Vicky, Lyn and Sandra; and Nigel, Jeremy and Bulldog. People with full time jobs appear to be devoting every spare minute to directing, producing, building sets and rigging lights. I am surrounded by total commitment and dedication. And people who wear extremely interesting clothes !! (I continue to play it safe in jeans...)
There is a social side of this activity but much as I like this group of people, I never hang about after rehearsals as this tends to involve going for a drink. I prefer to say my goodbyes and head off home, or to a meeting of my support group. This doesn't seem to present any impediment to my popularity - I get the feeling that these people like me well enough; just as I like them. It's really pretty easy to get on with people.
Once again, I find myself making the comparison with my work place, and the bewildering way The Jackals suddenly decided to make me the target of their venom.
Am I just working within an environment which is wrong for me? Was I insane to abandon the creative life entirely? Am I simply a fish out of water?
A Fish is who looking for her Swish.....???
It's also the first time we have had a chance to perform on stage as opposed to in a motley assortment of rehearsal rooms.
It's been 25 years since I acted on stage - one of the reasons why I have been careful not to tell anyone I am doing this. I am being evasive with friends who wonder why I am not as available as usual; and I suspect the only audience member I know will turn out to be my mother (bless her). Even my husband has been dissuaded - which I suspect suits him, as amateur theatricals are not really his cup of tea.
But oh ! they are very much MY cup of tea.
I have loved acting ever since I was a child.
When I first set foot in this particular theatre, I felt totally overwhelmed by the feelings of nostalgia and familiarity. And I also felt very sad that I had waited so long to come home. It is my very own Blue Door Theatre Company come to life, populated by older versions of Maddy, Vicky, Lyn and Sandra; and Nigel, Jeremy and Bulldog. People with full time jobs appear to be devoting every spare minute to directing, producing, building sets and rigging lights. I am surrounded by total commitment and dedication. And people who wear extremely interesting clothes !! (I continue to play it safe in jeans...)
There is a social side of this activity but much as I like this group of people, I never hang about after rehearsals as this tends to involve going for a drink. I prefer to say my goodbyes and head off home, or to a meeting of my support group. This doesn't seem to present any impediment to my popularity - I get the feeling that these people like me well enough; just as I like them. It's really pretty easy to get on with people.
Once again, I find myself making the comparison with my work place, and the bewildering way The Jackals suddenly decided to make me the target of their venom.
Am I just working within an environment which is wrong for me? Was I insane to abandon the creative life entirely? Am I simply a fish out of water?
A Fish is who looking for her Swish.....???
Saturday 9 June 2012
Confusing Kindness with Stupidity...
A great chat coming back in the car last night. I have known my fellow companion for almost 20 years - he is my husband's closest friend. He tells me a tale about recently being deceived by a neighbour with regards to a planning application. I have such a similar tale to relate myself, it is almost spooky !
In both instances, we dispensed with the services of solicitors after having been assured by the other party that they were entirely trustworthy and that we could rely upon what they said. Only to later discover that they had lied through their teeth.
There is clearly a Moral lurking in here somewhere....
My husband's friend says "I worry that I might be seen as too nice".
What a terrible indictment of humanity, I think.
That in order to survive, we have to be less nice.
Cripes.
I tell him that when I discovered the other party had lied to me, I experienced something akin to mild shock symptoms. I simply could not believe that someone could have looked me in the eye, smiled, and asked after my family; while all the time they were plotting to do the dirty on me. Husband's Friend admits to being assailed by similar sense of unreality at the point when light dawned.
When I spoke to my GP about the impact of Line Manager's conduct upon me, he asked what I would have done in similar circumstances. I said I would have admitted to what I had done and told the truth. Whereupon GP laughed (quite a lot, as I recall !!) and assured me that 99% of people would act precisely as Line Manager had acted - ie they would have done everything possible to save their own skins, regardless of the damage to other people.
Oh - New Boss took a similar view! When I tried to explain to him that my relationship with Line Manager was now damaged beyond repair because of what he had done, he airily informed me "you would have done the same".
SORRY. NO. I WOULDN'T HAVE DONE.
And neither would my husband, or Husband's Friend.
Or any of the people I choose to spend my time with, quite honestly.
It's not that we are saints. It's not that we are religious zealots. It's not that we are morally righteous (although I'm sure it suits others to call us so). It is simply that we have all found we cannot live any other way and live with ourselves.
So - yes, I still find it painful, and shocking, and upsetting when I am lied to, or abused, or mistreated. But eventually I get over it. And when I do, I am entirely capable of standing up for myself.
Because the other thing Husband's Friend and I talked about last night was how outraged the other parties always are when we finally react to having been deceived. When we finally contact solicitors, phone the police, take out a grievance, or just turn round and say NO. It is as if our initial openness and kindness has lulled the other parties into thinking we are totally unable to stand up for ourselves, and exist just to be exploited.
As Life Coach Colleague once so brilliantly phrased it:
"People confuse kindness with stupidity".
But only for so long.
In both instances, we dispensed with the services of solicitors after having been assured by the other party that they were entirely trustworthy and that we could rely upon what they said. Only to later discover that they had lied through their teeth.
There is clearly a Moral lurking in here somewhere....
My husband's friend says "I worry that I might be seen as too nice".
What a terrible indictment of humanity, I think.
That in order to survive, we have to be less nice.
Cripes.
I tell him that when I discovered the other party had lied to me, I experienced something akin to mild shock symptoms. I simply could not believe that someone could have looked me in the eye, smiled, and asked after my family; while all the time they were plotting to do the dirty on me. Husband's Friend admits to being assailed by similar sense of unreality at the point when light dawned.
When I spoke to my GP about the impact of Line Manager's conduct upon me, he asked what I would have done in similar circumstances. I said I would have admitted to what I had done and told the truth. Whereupon GP laughed (quite a lot, as I recall !!) and assured me that 99% of people would act precisely as Line Manager had acted - ie they would have done everything possible to save their own skins, regardless of the damage to other people.
Oh - New Boss took a similar view! When I tried to explain to him that my relationship with Line Manager was now damaged beyond repair because of what he had done, he airily informed me "you would have done the same".
SORRY. NO. I WOULDN'T HAVE DONE.
And neither would my husband, or Husband's Friend.
Or any of the people I choose to spend my time with, quite honestly.
It's not that we are saints. It's not that we are religious zealots. It's not that we are morally righteous (although I'm sure it suits others to call us so). It is simply that we have all found we cannot live any other way and live with ourselves.
So - yes, I still find it painful, and shocking, and upsetting when I am lied to, or abused, or mistreated. But eventually I get over it. And when I do, I am entirely capable of standing up for myself.
Because the other thing Husband's Friend and I talked about last night was how outraged the other parties always are when we finally react to having been deceived. When we finally contact solicitors, phone the police, take out a grievance, or just turn round and say NO. It is as if our initial openness and kindness has lulled the other parties into thinking we are totally unable to stand up for ourselves, and exist just to be exploited.
As Life Coach Colleague once so brilliantly phrased it:
"People confuse kindness with stupidity".
But only for so long.
Friday 8 June 2012
Living in the Present
Scotland. It's not Siberia so I don't know why I seem unable to access the internet where I am staying. After endeavouring fruitlessly to set up a laptop station in every room in the house, I give up and concentrate upon just living in the present. This involves undertaking various tasks for elderly relatives - pinning up rose bushes threatening to overwhelm the path, going to Morrisons, and holding a ladder while my husband makes a precarious ascent into the loft.
I am struggling to live in the present right now, because my mind keeps sailing off to far flung shores. Shores where the map is marked "here be dragons".
I really REALLY don't want to go back to work. Or rather - I really don't want to set foot back in the main office (because the actual day-to-day work is fine). But in two days time I have to sit through another pointless "management meeting" with New Boss and Line Manager which will necessitate A Visit To The Town Hall. I am starting to feel extremely phobic about this encounter - probably because of the sheer impossibility of me being able to communicate how I am really feeling. Because I don't trust these people and they have no concern for my well-being.
To illustrate the above, and to demonstrate that I am not a completely paranoid headcase:
Last September, I went to see Former Boss and told him I felt totally unable to cope with attending a meeting the following day in the company of Line Manager - someone who was at the time merrily fabricating lies about me in order to defend his own invidious actions (later to be found worthy of a formal reprimand). Former Boss's sensitive response to my heartfelt and desperate plea for his support and understanding was to insist that I attend the meeting!
Eight months later, memories of sitting through that meeting for ninety minutes, battling feelings of chronic anxiety and panic, are still all-too horribly vivid. And the signs which prefaced that last incident are beginning to surface again.
- I'm lying awake at night, unable to sleep
- I am feeling breathless and anxious
- There is a sensation of a giant hand pressing on my chest
- And my thoughts run round and round in endless circles
Yes, I know these are symptoms of chronic anxiety and stress. I know they are just irrational feelings which do not represent reality. But despite this knowledge, I am struggling to be master of my own kingdom.
Until 5pm, when my husband's friend rings and asks if I would like to come to a meeting of our "support group" with him that evening.
Would I ?
Would I ??!
The meeting is only 90 minutes long, but the half hour chat in the car on the way there, the half hour chat on the way back, and the talk over tea all three of us have back at the house together, represents 4 hours of living in the present and provides my anxiety with the best curative treatment available.
Current Symptoms = mild to moderate
Prognosis = excellent
I am struggling to live in the present right now, because my mind keeps sailing off to far flung shores. Shores where the map is marked "here be dragons".
I really REALLY don't want to go back to work. Or rather - I really don't want to set foot back in the main office (because the actual day-to-day work is fine). But in two days time I have to sit through another pointless "management meeting" with New Boss and Line Manager which will necessitate A Visit To The Town Hall. I am starting to feel extremely phobic about this encounter - probably because of the sheer impossibility of me being able to communicate how I am really feeling. Because I don't trust these people and they have no concern for my well-being.
To illustrate the above, and to demonstrate that I am not a completely paranoid headcase:
Last September, I went to see Former Boss and told him I felt totally unable to cope with attending a meeting the following day in the company of Line Manager - someone who was at the time merrily fabricating lies about me in order to defend his own invidious actions (later to be found worthy of a formal reprimand). Former Boss's sensitive response to my heartfelt and desperate plea for his support and understanding was to insist that I attend the meeting!
Eight months later, memories of sitting through that meeting for ninety minutes, battling feelings of chronic anxiety and panic, are still all-too horribly vivid. And the signs which prefaced that last incident are beginning to surface again.
- I'm lying awake at night, unable to sleep
- I am feeling breathless and anxious
- There is a sensation of a giant hand pressing on my chest
- And my thoughts run round and round in endless circles
Yes, I know these are symptoms of chronic anxiety and stress. I know they are just irrational feelings which do not represent reality. But despite this knowledge, I am struggling to be master of my own kingdom.
Until 5pm, when my husband's friend rings and asks if I would like to come to a meeting of our "support group" with him that evening.
Would I ?
Would I ??!
The meeting is only 90 minutes long, but the half hour chat in the car on the way there, the half hour chat on the way back, and the talk over tea all three of us have back at the house together, represents 4 hours of living in the present and provides my anxiety with the best curative treatment available.
Current Symptoms = mild to moderate
Prognosis = excellent
Wednesday 6 June 2012
Keeping One's Own Counsel
I was in Sainsburys about ten years ago when I bumped into someone from Before. As in - the world I used to inhabit prior to the life-changing experience which led me eventually to a new "career" (I use this term extremely loosely) in local government.
"Doncha miss it?" she said to me, juggling two bottles of Pinot Grigio, a ready meal and three packets of Resolve. "Doncha miss all of it?"
Well, no. Funnily enough I don't miss the press nights and first nights, the parties and piss-ups, the decadence and the drudge. Because for me, they came with lots of nasty little strings attached.
There was an extraordinary lack of inhibition in that world - everyone knew who was fornicating with whom, for how long, and probably in precisely what positions. I don't suppose I was any less prone to unedited verbiage than the rest of them. After all, at an early meeting of my "support group" I came across someone else from Before who said "I remember you. You were f***ing MAD". (And there was me thinking I was a much-envied member of London's glitterati....)
Yet at work now, I have the reputation of being someone "extremely private" (so sayeth Personnel, and she should know). And why do I avoid telling people at work much about myself? Well, let's see:
- I guess I feel I have Things To Hide
- I work in an environment dominated by middle-aged men in suits who are already about as sexist and patronising as any I have ever come across - so why stack the odds any higher?
- I have no confidence that I would be viewed with compassion or understanding; I rather believe that I will be judged. And harshly.
- I am a different person now, so talking about the past would actually misrepresent me
- I just want work to be about the work
But - oh dear! - some years ago I broke my own code of silence. I actually confided in a female colleague - one I thought I was close to and could trust. So it was the most horrible shock to realise that Remora (for yes, it was she) was not who she pretended to be. And that while I had been blithely entrusting my secrets to her, she had been carefully storing them up for future use.
Extremely private? Sheesh, you bet your sweet bippy I am "extremely private". I am happy to talk about any aspect of Before with my friends, at meetings of my support group, and with the women I am helping. Hell - I have stood up in front of 200 strangers and talked about Before. But work is entirely different.
At work I am just the Stepford Employee.
She only exists in the present.
There is no Before.
"Doncha miss it?" she said to me, juggling two bottles of Pinot Grigio, a ready meal and three packets of Resolve. "Doncha miss all of it?"
Well, no. Funnily enough I don't miss the press nights and first nights, the parties and piss-ups, the decadence and the drudge. Because for me, they came with lots of nasty little strings attached.
There was an extraordinary lack of inhibition in that world - everyone knew who was fornicating with whom, for how long, and probably in precisely what positions. I don't suppose I was any less prone to unedited verbiage than the rest of them. After all, at an early meeting of my "support group" I came across someone else from Before who said "I remember you. You were f***ing MAD". (And there was me thinking I was a much-envied member of London's glitterati....)
Yet at work now, I have the reputation of being someone "extremely private" (so sayeth Personnel, and she should know). And why do I avoid telling people at work much about myself? Well, let's see:
- I guess I feel I have Things To Hide
- I work in an environment dominated by middle-aged men in suits who are already about as sexist and patronising as any I have ever come across - so why stack the odds any higher?
- I have no confidence that I would be viewed with compassion or understanding; I rather believe that I will be judged. And harshly.
- I am a different person now, so talking about the past would actually misrepresent me
- I just want work to be about the work
But - oh dear! - some years ago I broke my own code of silence. I actually confided in a female colleague - one I thought I was close to and could trust. So it was the most horrible shock to realise that Remora (for yes, it was she) was not who she pretended to be. And that while I had been blithely entrusting my secrets to her, she had been carefully storing them up for future use.
Extremely private? Sheesh, you bet your sweet bippy I am "extremely private". I am happy to talk about any aspect of Before with my friends, at meetings of my support group, and with the women I am helping. Hell - I have stood up in front of 200 strangers and talked about Before. But work is entirely different.
At work I am just the Stepford Employee.
She only exists in the present.
There is no Before.
Tuesday 5 June 2012
Keeping One's Own Company
Anne Bronte is buried in St Mary's Churchyard, Scarborough.
I stand at the top of the old graveyard, trying to ignore the fact that the lower half of it has now been pressed into service as a car park, and think about Anne, her sisters, and their utterly extraordinary lives.
Despite the cars, it is a tranquil resting place, on top of a headland which looks down upon the sea; and because it is almost dusk, there are very few people about. I'm glad that I have had the opportunity to come and stand here, if only for a few moments, while my husband and his mother patiently wait for me on a bench on Queen's Parade.
I stopped reading for pleasure about two years ago. I stopped reading because (I claimed) I never had time, that my head had too much occupying it for me to concentrate, and that I left such long gaps between picking up the book I was reading, that I invariably had to go back to the start to remind myself of what was going on.
The truth was that I allowed work to totally take over my life.
Which was (sort of) fine until it all went wrong and I realised what a bloody, stupid fool I had been.
Last week I finished work early ("early" as in - ummm - 2pm !!) and went off to spend the afternoon at the V & A. I split my time between the Ballgowns exhibition, and an unexpectedly fascinating exhibition about the work of the Heatherwick Studios. As always, it felt so good to be transported into different worlds, populated by different characters.
I could have asked someone to come with me. And sometimes I do, because it is lovely to share these experiences with someone. But at other times, I like to be on my own. I am very comfortable with my own company. Perhaps too much so.
When I applied for my current job some years ago, I was warned that much of the work would be away from the main office, often working self-reliantly and on one's own. I assured the interviewers that this would present no problems for me; and over time thus it proved, . But about two years ago, I accepted greater responsibilities which brought me into contact with the main office staff. Including The Others....
Yikes.
"Fall back! Fall back!!!"
Sound the retreat.
And get the f*** outta there.
I take one last look at Anne Bronte's battered headstone, and make my way out of the graveyard to rejoin my companions.
Later that night I download (FREE by the way!!) "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall" onto my Kindle.
Even better - I actually start reading it.
I stand at the top of the old graveyard, trying to ignore the fact that the lower half of it has now been pressed into service as a car park, and think about Anne, her sisters, and their utterly extraordinary lives.
Despite the cars, it is a tranquil resting place, on top of a headland which looks down upon the sea; and because it is almost dusk, there are very few people about. I'm glad that I have had the opportunity to come and stand here, if only for a few moments, while my husband and his mother patiently wait for me on a bench on Queen's Parade.
I stopped reading for pleasure about two years ago. I stopped reading because (I claimed) I never had time, that my head had too much occupying it for me to concentrate, and that I left such long gaps between picking up the book I was reading, that I invariably had to go back to the start to remind myself of what was going on.
The truth was that I allowed work to totally take over my life.
Which was (sort of) fine until it all went wrong and I realised what a bloody, stupid fool I had been.
Last week I finished work early ("early" as in - ummm - 2pm !!) and went off to spend the afternoon at the V & A. I split my time between the Ballgowns exhibition, and an unexpectedly fascinating exhibition about the work of the Heatherwick Studios. As always, it felt so good to be transported into different worlds, populated by different characters.
I could have asked someone to come with me. And sometimes I do, because it is lovely to share these experiences with someone. But at other times, I like to be on my own. I am very comfortable with my own company. Perhaps too much so.
When I applied for my current job some years ago, I was warned that much of the work would be away from the main office, often working self-reliantly and on one's own. I assured the interviewers that this would present no problems for me; and over time thus it proved, . But about two years ago, I accepted greater responsibilities which brought me into contact with the main office staff. Including The Others....
Yikes.
"Fall back! Fall back!!!"
Sound the retreat.
And get the f*** outta there.
I take one last look at Anne Bronte's battered headstone, and make my way out of the graveyard to rejoin my companions.
Later that night I download (FREE by the way!!) "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall" onto my Kindle.
Even better - I actually start reading it.
"Bully In Sight"
I used to say that all one needed to get through life was a library card (this was in the days before the internet was ever invented, so we are talking A Long Time Ago). I was pretty confident that if I needed to know how to deal with a situation, or to understand something I was struggling with, that someone, somewhere, would have written a book about it and I just had to locate this resource and I would be ok.
Google has replaced the library - and in fact libraries themselves seem to be rapidly heading towards extinction, as most of the ones round our way are rebranding themselves as "learning centres".
But the principle still applies....
When things were getting really bad last year at work - I mean "really bad" as in: I couldn't sleep, I felt continually baffled, and I started suffering from chronic anxiety - I started googling "Workplace Bullying". And amongst a lot of helpful and insightful material, I came across several mentions of a book called "Bully In Sight" by Tim Field.
Getting hold of it was slightly complicated, as it is not available in bookshops and each order has to be specially printed. But - oh my goodness, it was the best £15 I have spent in a long LONG time.
There is something horribly shaming to be a competent, professional adult in the workplace who suddenly becomes the target of bullies. Which is why, I guess, that most people in the situation I found myself in eventually decide to leave their jobs rather than undergo the agony of confrontation and challenge. Perhaps I should have joined their numbers - except that at the time I still really loved my job.
But being bullied at work - subjected to a daily barrage of petty spite, incessant rumour-mongering, and gleefully pointed ostracisms in a place where I had for many years felt happy and safe - was horrendous. So I am very grateful to Tim Field for writing his book and helping me to understand:
- I was not the only adult unlucky enough to experience this treatment in the workplace
- My distressed reaction to it was normal; not weird, psychotic or strange
- There were some strategies I could adopt to try and tackle the bullying...
- ....but they came with very high risks attached.
I certainly don't blame Tim Field (God rest his soul, for he died some years ago) or his book for the fact that things worked out so badly for me. I belive they would have worked out far worse if I had not, in so many instances, been forewarned about how other people - particularly The Hierarchy - were likely to respond.
Yes, I felt disappointed.
Yes, I felt disenchanted.
Yes, I felt totally and utterly disillusioned.
But - thanks to Tim Field - I never felt in the slightest bit surprised.
Google has replaced the library - and in fact libraries themselves seem to be rapidly heading towards extinction, as most of the ones round our way are rebranding themselves as "learning centres".
But the principle still applies....
When things were getting really bad last year at work - I mean "really bad" as in: I couldn't sleep, I felt continually baffled, and I started suffering from chronic anxiety - I started googling "Workplace Bullying". And amongst a lot of helpful and insightful material, I came across several mentions of a book called "Bully In Sight" by Tim Field.
Getting hold of it was slightly complicated, as it is not available in bookshops and each order has to be specially printed. But - oh my goodness, it was the best £15 I have spent in a long LONG time.
There is something horribly shaming to be a competent, professional adult in the workplace who suddenly becomes the target of bullies. Which is why, I guess, that most people in the situation I found myself in eventually decide to leave their jobs rather than undergo the agony of confrontation and challenge. Perhaps I should have joined their numbers - except that at the time I still really loved my job.
But being bullied at work - subjected to a daily barrage of petty spite, incessant rumour-mongering, and gleefully pointed ostracisms in a place where I had for many years felt happy and safe - was horrendous. So I am very grateful to Tim Field for writing his book and helping me to understand:
- I was not the only adult unlucky enough to experience this treatment in the workplace
- My distressed reaction to it was normal; not weird, psychotic or strange
- There were some strategies I could adopt to try and tackle the bullying...
- ....but they came with very high risks attached.
I certainly don't blame Tim Field (God rest his soul, for he died some years ago) or his book for the fact that things worked out so badly for me. I belive they would have worked out far worse if I had not, in so many instances, been forewarned about how other people - particularly The Hierarchy - were likely to respond.
Yes, I felt disappointed.
Yes, I felt disenchanted.
Yes, I felt totally and utterly disillusioned.
But - thanks to Tim Field - I never felt in the slightest bit surprised.
Monday 4 June 2012
Whitby, Whelks and Wave Dodging
Whitby on a Bank Holiday Monday is insane. I can see that it is probably a most delightful little harbour town; but after fifteen minutes of trying to push against a heaving tide of humanity with an elderly person in tow, I am desperate to leave it.
The only redeeming feature is the dogs. I have never seen so many dogs!! North Yorkshire would appear to be totally awash with poodles and pugs, setters and shi-tzus, labradors and lurchers. I am so distracted by cute little whiskery faces, that I don't know which way to turn.
But nonetheless it is a relief when, after our whelks, we finally decide we have all had enough; and head back across the moors to Scarborough. This is the best part of the day - when the sun has finally broken through the cloud, and sends shadows scudding across the fields and gorse.
Parking up on Marine Drive, we decide to walk right round to South Sands where there is a cafe selling "proper" (ie Italian) coffee. Mother-in-law goes great guns, and at times I am struggling to keep up. On the walk back, we idly remark upon the damp patches on the boardwalk without carrying this observation through to its logical conclusion. Cause and effect are amply demonstrated only minutes later, when a huge wave washes over the sea wall and completely drenches all three of us, as well as a family walking a few paces ahead.
Mother-in-law has incredible spirit and joie-de-vivre. Despite her "holiday" perm being ruined, and her hearing aid having packed up in protest, she laughs louder than any of us. Except possibly myself. I am so saturated, that not an inch of my clothing has escaped the deluge.
As we drip back to the car, belatedly reading the signs which warn of waves overshooting the boardwalk, I think how wonderful it feels to really really laugh. It might surprise some of the people I work with, but I laugh a lot! I laugh in meetings of my support group (possibly some of the most entertaining experiences of my week). I laugh in rehearsals of the community choir, when the men astound us all by getting it right first time. My sisters and I spent most of our time in Valencia laughing. And I laugh constantly when I am with my husband, because he is still the funniest, sharpest and wittiest person I have ever met.
I would love to laugh at work.
But I never do.
Not any more.
Pity.
The only redeeming feature is the dogs. I have never seen so many dogs!! North Yorkshire would appear to be totally awash with poodles and pugs, setters and shi-tzus, labradors and lurchers. I am so distracted by cute little whiskery faces, that I don't know which way to turn.
But nonetheless it is a relief when, after our whelks, we finally decide we have all had enough; and head back across the moors to Scarborough. This is the best part of the day - when the sun has finally broken through the cloud, and sends shadows scudding across the fields and gorse.
Parking up on Marine Drive, we decide to walk right round to South Sands where there is a cafe selling "proper" (ie Italian) coffee. Mother-in-law goes great guns, and at times I am struggling to keep up. On the walk back, we idly remark upon the damp patches on the boardwalk without carrying this observation through to its logical conclusion. Cause and effect are amply demonstrated only minutes later, when a huge wave washes over the sea wall and completely drenches all three of us, as well as a family walking a few paces ahead.
Mother-in-law has incredible spirit and joie-de-vivre. Despite her "holiday" perm being ruined, and her hearing aid having packed up in protest, she laughs louder than any of us. Except possibly myself. I am so saturated, that not an inch of my clothing has escaped the deluge.
As we drip back to the car, belatedly reading the signs which warn of waves overshooting the boardwalk, I think how wonderful it feels to really really laugh. It might surprise some of the people I work with, but I laugh a lot! I laugh in meetings of my support group (possibly some of the most entertaining experiences of my week). I laugh in rehearsals of the community choir, when the men astound us all by getting it right first time. My sisters and I spent most of our time in Valencia laughing. And I laugh constantly when I am with my husband, because he is still the funniest, sharpest and wittiest person I have ever met.
I would love to laugh at work.
But I never do.
Not any more.
Pity.
Sunday 3 June 2012
The Ronseal People
We have lunch in the Grand Hotel. It is fantastically good value and we emerge barely able to walk, but having spent only £20. Not each; that's for all of us !
The waitress is a woman in her 50's who radiates warmth and good humour. When she checks in with our table for the fourth time and asks "is there anything else you'd like, love?", I say "yes please - would you adopt me?"
But quietly, after she has gone, you understand...
The people up here are fabulous. They are direct, funny and real. They are Ronseal People - you get exactly what it says on the tin.
New Boss is from these parts, and I am starting to understand why I see that expression of frustration upon his face when he is trying to communicate with me. I am sure that to him I represent all that is worst about Southerners. Let us not forget that I am (according to him) "quite posh"; that apart from our initial talk in my office I have stopped telling him what I really think and feel; and that his attempts to provoke some kind of spontaneous response from me ("you just need to deal with your demons") are proving totally fruitless. So I am sure that to him Stepford Employee represents less a compliant model of femininity, and more an uptight, snooty, frosty-knickered bint.
Well, tough.
I have thought for some time that if I met New Boss in any other circumstances we would get on famously. But he plays a specific role in my life - a managerial role which dictates a particular type of relationship.
Former Boss was a blunt and direct Yorkshireman too. I thought that meant he would protect my interests, maintain confidentiality, and put a stop to the appalling behaviour of The Others. Hell - I trusted him.
A week before he retired, Former Boss approached me in the main office and said "are you coming to my leaving party?" I replied non-committally; to which he responded "I can completely understand if you don't want to". In front of other people, which was quite something.
In the end I went to his party (figuring a decade under his command ought to be acknowledged), only to have him seek me out and say "I'm sorry for everything that has happened to you", and telling me that he had never intended to deliberately cause me harm.
"Too little, too late" seems to have become this year's motto !!!
But I could have done without all the apologies.
I'd have preferred things not to have happened in the first place.
New Boss knows none of this. And never will.
Insanity = doing the same thing and expecting a different result. So sadly I will never connect with New Boss in the way I connect with all his other countrymen and women.
Because once bitten, twice shy.
The waitress is a woman in her 50's who radiates warmth and good humour. When she checks in with our table for the fourth time and asks "is there anything else you'd like, love?", I say "yes please - would you adopt me?"
But quietly, after she has gone, you understand...
The people up here are fabulous. They are direct, funny and real. They are Ronseal People - you get exactly what it says on the tin.
New Boss is from these parts, and I am starting to understand why I see that expression of frustration upon his face when he is trying to communicate with me. I am sure that to him I represent all that is worst about Southerners. Let us not forget that I am (according to him) "quite posh"; that apart from our initial talk in my office I have stopped telling him what I really think and feel; and that his attempts to provoke some kind of spontaneous response from me ("you just need to deal with your demons") are proving totally fruitless. So I am sure that to him Stepford Employee represents less a compliant model of femininity, and more an uptight, snooty, frosty-knickered bint.
Well, tough.
I have thought for some time that if I met New Boss in any other circumstances we would get on famously. But he plays a specific role in my life - a managerial role which dictates a particular type of relationship.
Former Boss was a blunt and direct Yorkshireman too. I thought that meant he would protect my interests, maintain confidentiality, and put a stop to the appalling behaviour of The Others. Hell - I trusted him.
A week before he retired, Former Boss approached me in the main office and said "are you coming to my leaving party?" I replied non-committally; to which he responded "I can completely understand if you don't want to". In front of other people, which was quite something.
In the end I went to his party (figuring a decade under his command ought to be acknowledged), only to have him seek me out and say "I'm sorry for everything that has happened to you", and telling me that he had never intended to deliberately cause me harm.
"Too little, too late" seems to have become this year's motto !!!
But I could have done without all the apologies.
I'd have preferred things not to have happened in the first place.
New Boss knows none of this. And never will.
Insanity = doing the same thing and expecting a different result. So sadly I will never connect with New Boss in the way I connect with all his other countrymen and women.
Because once bitten, twice shy.
Incarceration
Not long ago I was in prison.
Not, I am relieved to report, because I had been sentenced to spend time in there, but because I had gone in as a volunteer. This entailed entering a wing in the company of a burly, key-rattling warder, and then sitting for ninety minutes in a very small cell with approximately 15 male prisoners and one other male volunteer.
I don't do prison volunteering very often because it is difficult service for which I can feel very ill-equipped. But I have never once felt frightened, not even the time when two prisoners almost began fighting and I was the furthest person from the door.
This is because the men inside the cells have always treated me with the most incredibly touching courtesy. Tattooed giants usher me towards the only chair with arm rests, saying "sit here Miss". Young lads who cannot look me in the eye still manage to shake my hand afterwards and say "thanks for coming". And when these men accidentally let out a swear word while speaking, an apology is swift to follow.
I am bewildered as to how things became so horrendously different at work. I don't know what I did to upset some of my colleagues so much. I don't understand why this group selected me as their "mobbing" target, or how I could have avoided this. And I still try to make sense of it all, which is pointless and painful; and gets me precisely nowhere.
But it does seem so very strange that I can feel (relatively) comfortable and at peace in almost every environment I inhabit except for my own workplace.
I felt freer in that prison than I did last Wednesday sitting in the same room as The Jackals.
And I felt a hell of a lot safer.
Not, I am relieved to report, because I had been sentenced to spend time in there, but because I had gone in as a volunteer. This entailed entering a wing in the company of a burly, key-rattling warder, and then sitting for ninety minutes in a very small cell with approximately 15 male prisoners and one other male volunteer.
I don't do prison volunteering very often because it is difficult service for which I can feel very ill-equipped. But I have never once felt frightened, not even the time when two prisoners almost began fighting and I was the furthest person from the door.
This is because the men inside the cells have always treated me with the most incredibly touching courtesy. Tattooed giants usher me towards the only chair with arm rests, saying "sit here Miss". Young lads who cannot look me in the eye still manage to shake my hand afterwards and say "thanks for coming". And when these men accidentally let out a swear word while speaking, an apology is swift to follow.
I am bewildered as to how things became so horrendously different at work. I don't know what I did to upset some of my colleagues so much. I don't understand why this group selected me as their "mobbing" target, or how I could have avoided this. And I still try to make sense of it all, which is pointless and painful; and gets me precisely nowhere.
But it does seem so very strange that I can feel (relatively) comfortable and at peace in almost every environment I inhabit except for my own workplace.
I felt freer in that prison than I did last Wednesday sitting in the same room as The Jackals.
And I felt a hell of a lot safer.
Saturday 2 June 2012
Stepford Employee Goes to Scarborough
I'm looking down on the North Sands watching a hardy group of surfers, while seagulls wheel and screech overhead.
And I am starting to feel much better.
It's been a strange couple of days, during which I have been feeling peculiarly disassociated. I'm fine when I am at rehearsals, I'm fine when I'm with my friends, I'm very VERY fine when I'm at home with my husband. But I haven't been feeling fine at work.
Personnel have been emailing me, continually shifting the dates of my mediation session with Line Manager; and their latest missive states that nothing can be set up until July. I don't know what mediation means to everyone else, but to me this process only has value if I freely express how I feel. And as this will inevitably leave me feeling vulnerable and exposed; the longer the delay, the more I can feel anxiety building.
So on Friday a little switch trips in my head, and I think "bugger this for a game of soldiers". I politely and apologetically email Personnel and pull out of the whole thing. This inevitably triggers a flurried email from Personnel insisting that I ring her, but I don't respond.
Not responding has become my norm. I go into work, do my tasks, and am as "helpful" as possible, but most of the time I am not fully present. I am still feeling my way into Stepford Employee mode, and realise that I need to start doing more of the smiling and nodding thing - but I find this very difficult when I feel under threat. So it is just as well that I am now on holiday.
I haven't been to Scarborough for years. En route, we keep seeing signs to a Certain Northern City from which New Boss hails; and I reflect on how compartmentalised my life has now become (for I have not mentioned to him, nor anyone else, where I am disappearing off to...). It's colder in Scarborough than I thought it would be. My mother-in-law describes the stiff breeze as "fresh", whereas I'd call it nippy. But our hotel is spotless and has sea views. The batter is crisp, the peas mushy and the chips salty. And the two young women I currently have the privilege of supporting both ring me towards the end of the day and tell me they are doing just fine without me. Which is fabulous.
There aren't any elaborate plans for our time here, other than mooching about and drinking lots of cups of tea. And that's good - because I need some time and space to recover from my recent wobble, and to think further about my newly adopted Stepford persona.
There would seem to be Considerable Room For Improvement.
As my school reports used to say: "Could do better".
And I am starting to feel much better.
It's been a strange couple of days, during which I have been feeling peculiarly disassociated. I'm fine when I am at rehearsals, I'm fine when I'm with my friends, I'm very VERY fine when I'm at home with my husband. But I haven't been feeling fine at work.
Personnel have been emailing me, continually shifting the dates of my mediation session with Line Manager; and their latest missive states that nothing can be set up until July. I don't know what mediation means to everyone else, but to me this process only has value if I freely express how I feel. And as this will inevitably leave me feeling vulnerable and exposed; the longer the delay, the more I can feel anxiety building.
So on Friday a little switch trips in my head, and I think "bugger this for a game of soldiers". I politely and apologetically email Personnel and pull out of the whole thing. This inevitably triggers a flurried email from Personnel insisting that I ring her, but I don't respond.
Not responding has become my norm. I go into work, do my tasks, and am as "helpful" as possible, but most of the time I am not fully present. I am still feeling my way into Stepford Employee mode, and realise that I need to start doing more of the smiling and nodding thing - but I find this very difficult when I feel under threat. So it is just as well that I am now on holiday.
I haven't been to Scarborough for years. En route, we keep seeing signs to a Certain Northern City from which New Boss hails; and I reflect on how compartmentalised my life has now become (for I have not mentioned to him, nor anyone else, where I am disappearing off to...). It's colder in Scarborough than I thought it would be. My mother-in-law describes the stiff breeze as "fresh", whereas I'd call it nippy. But our hotel is spotless and has sea views. The batter is crisp, the peas mushy and the chips salty. And the two young women I currently have the privilege of supporting both ring me towards the end of the day and tell me they are doing just fine without me. Which is fabulous.
There aren't any elaborate plans for our time here, other than mooching about and drinking lots of cups of tea. And that's good - because I need some time and space to recover from my recent wobble, and to think further about my newly adopted Stepford persona.
There would seem to be Considerable Room For Improvement.
As my school reports used to say: "Could do better".
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