Hummp Day: Post workplace abuse: Reclaiming my life in Stages

Today is Wednesday.  Hump Day.  So I decided that, at least for this week, on hump day I would do something different.  Something lighter.  Something to break the ominous clouds of workplace abuse.  After all, my life before, during and now after has not been ALL gloom and doom.  There have been rays of sunshine.  Moments of joy.  Times of wonder and delight.  Today, I share with you one of these times.

Saturday June 22, 2013 I did something totally different, totally new.  Again I pushed the envelope - but in a totally different direction than the weekend before at the writer's conference.  I became the designated photographer for a friend's children's birthday party.  My price:  a piece of cake.

It all began innocently enough.  A posting on Facebook by a young mother asking if anyone had a DSLR to take pictures of their child's party on the weekend.  

I felt like the proverbial second grader hand raised jumping up and down in his seat, barely able to contain his excitement saying:  "Pick me!  Pick me!"

The opportunity to have my first "gig" as a photographer excited me.  The opportunity to another piece of my life was an adventure I could not pass up.

Never mind that I'm not a professional.  Never mind that I've not yet taken classes.  Never mind any of the technicalities.  The opportunity was just too good to pass up.

My favorite action shot of the whole bunch.  Little sister and her balloon.

My life post workplace abuse is in a sense spontaneous.  It consists of whatever appears at any given moment.  And this moment, this priceless two-hour window on a hot, make that very hot, June afternoon was too precious to ignore. 

There were princess balloons galore which, I think,
were one of the main attractions for the princesses.

A young child having her fourth birthday.  And we know that fourth birthdays only come once to any given person.

A young mother determined to celebrate this event to the fullest.  And wise enough to know that she would be too busy orchestrating children and other things to take pictures to commemorate this event.

The "token" male in the group - the princess's father.
Does that make him the king?

A father, the "token" male in the gathering.  Mostly the silent observer in the room, putting on the crown to enjoy tea with his three daughters.

Every princess has to have a crown
so these young ladies are decorating their own.

The obvious enjoyment of the children, including and especially the birthday girl, enjoying the moment as only young children can.  Concentrating fully on the task at hand:  creating their own princess crowns.

The two Snow Whites.
Will the real Snow White please stand up.

The two princesses who dropped by for the afternoon.  After all, it was a "princess" party.  Complete with two princesses, princess dresses for all the party-goers, balloons, special cupcakes and, of course, a crown for the royal princess of the day.

The princess dresses each party-goer was encouraged to dress up in.  Some were shyer than others, taking time to get comfortable.  Others changed dresses.  Some never did become a "princess".  But that was the beauty of it:  each child was allowed to just be herself.

Snow White reading a princess story

Snow White who opened a story book and started to read to all the princesses assembled.

Little Sister has to get in the action.
"Do you think they will notice if I try this on for size?

The siblings of each party-goer and their parents.  Each of whom will take away their own special moments and memories of the event.

I don't know if this afternoon will forever leave in the memories and imaginations of the children who were present and participated.  But it will forever leave in my memory.  A day of pushing the boundaries for myself.  A day of watching the wonder in a young child's eyes over things that adults take for granted:  princesses who come to visit. balloons that fly high in the room, presents to open.  And most of all, that precious gift of feeling safe and loved.

When Did the Workplace Become So Dangerous?

As I work through this series on bullying, what it is and why it's important to be able to recognize it and deal appropriately with it, I am going to use different formats.  Some will be like the last post on the definition of bullying, working with my research and giving it to you the reader in small bites.  Some may be reviews of books that I've read which have helped me on this journey of self discovery and recovery.  Hopefully, at some point, I'll be able to recruit some guest bloggers to give their perspective on either this challenge or other life challenges that they've encountered and are working through/recovering from.

Today, I give you my thoughts, as written down more than a year ago.  This is only a piece, a small piece, of my story.

This is the prologue I wrote for what appears to be a "book in progress" I've been working on and off for over three years now about bullying in the workplace.  Actually. more off than on.  It's working title is Taking Off the Rose-Coloured Glasses:  What to do when Conflict Resolution doesn’t work AKA The Bully in the Corner Cubicle

Bullying: When did the workplace become so dangerous?

I think perhaps the workplace changed and became dangerous sometime in the interim when I was busy raising my children, occupied with the home and family and not paying attention to the larger, outside world.  

Maybe it was when I ran my own typing service and was self employed and again living within a world of my own making.  

Or maybe just maybe, it has always been there – in the background, the elephant in the office begging for recognition.  Begging for someone to come forward and tell it like it is.  Clamouring for a voice for the voiceless, power for the powerless and justice for those whose lives have been irreparably damaged by the hidden, unseen, unspoken phenomenon of bullying in the workplace.  

I am a victim of bullying in the workplace.  Not once but twice. 

I am also a victim of bullying several times in school.  My daughter was twice a victim of school bullying.  My cousin was bullied in her workplace.  As I open up and talk to people I run into, I find that the woman who now owns a bead shop was a victim of bullying; ditto the woman who is a server as a local restaurant; a friend on Facebook, someone I met in a computer workshop.  

All the stories are different.  But all the stories have the same common themes.  Injustice.  Severe stress.  A workplace unable or unwilling to hear the victim and take appropriate action.  

And then the breakdown of health and the ultimate early leave taking of the victim.  

I have just lost both my health and my job courtesy of my second round of bullying in the workplace.

Workplace bullying is a very complex issue.  No two scenarios are identical but there are threads running through each one.  So far, I've not seen one example of serious, down-to-earth, or what I call tai-kwon-du bullying resolved by management and Human Resources or the union.  Why?  Because none of these sectors have seriously studied the issue and learned of its patterns.

In my present round of bullying, it took me approximately two years to realize what was happening to me in the workplace.  That it indeed did have a name – and that name was bullying.  

Since that time, I have been researching over the net what bullying is, how it relates to me, and does it relate to me?  How to combat it.  It was through this search that I discovered that what had happened to me earlier in my prior workplace, although very different in the way it was carried out, was indeed bullying.  

Since the time I discovered that I was being bullied in the workplace, I have tried, unsuccessfully, to have it stopped.  

This is my story and what I've learned as I've reluctantly trudged down this road I would rather have avoided.

And that is where I will leave us today with this post.  This is indeed my story.  My thoughts.  My perceptions.  My journey.  And, ultimately, my journey into recovery.

See you next time....

A Working Definition of Bullying

Carrying on from the last posting, the first on a series of what bullying is....  What is bullying?  Why should it be a concern in the workplace?

After all, isn't it just a personality conflict between two people?  It doesn't really hurt anybody anyway, does it?

I mean, it's not violent. It doesn't leave marks or break bones.  It doesn't kill anyone.  So why are you fixating on it so much, Cassie?

First of all, bullying is not just a personality conflict between two people.  Nor is it a figment of the target's imagination.  It is not an assumption or perception.  And while it is not a form of physical violence (although it can escalate to physical violence if left unchecked),  according to Melanie Joy Douglas, Monster.ca in her article Workplace Bullying:

"Bullying is a form of workplace violence.  It is an offensive behaviour, a grab for control, and an exercise of power that attempts to undermine an individual through humiliation.   Bullying is vindictive, cruel, and malicious conduct that takes the form of verbally, social, psychologically, and/or physically hurting someone.  The attacks are unpredictable and irrational.

So far, this is by far, the best, most direct, most concise, and most objective definition of bullying that I've found.  She calls it like it is.  Pulling no punches.

She goes on to describe the difference between harassment and bullying citing Colleen Clarke, Monster's career advisor,

"Harassment is not necessarily ongoing.  It's not particularly meant to intimidate.  It could be that someone makes fun of the fact that you wear a turban.  It might only happen once.  ...  Bullying, on the other hand, constitutes repeated incidences, a pattern of behaviour.  It's intended to intimidate, offend, or humiliate a person.  Bullying is a form of aggression, and while the actions can be obvious or subtle - it's intended."

It's important to know the difference between harassment and bullying as most, if not all, companies by now have been compelled through legislation to draft harassment policies.  Harassment policies are based on human rights legislation.  For example, in Canada if I am being discriminated against or harassed in the workplace because of my ethnicity, sexual orientation, religion, etc., then it is a human rights violation and I can petition to the Human Rights Board of Canada for redress.  Bullying is completely different.  It can be based on something so basic as "so and so" simply does not like "so and so" and wants to get rid of her/him.

Problem:  although I have reason to believe that what happened to me may have had its origins in my religious beliefs i.e. Christian and/or my country of origin i.e. U.S., yesterday's schoolyard bullies are all grown up now - and much more sophisticated in their approach.  They are going to take care to ensure that their behaviour does not carry any whiff of bias or human rights violations.

Working through the quotes above:

• Bullying is a form of workplace violence
• Bullying is about power
• Bullying is about control
• It is vindictive
• It is unpredictable and irrational
• It is not harassment
• It is a form of aggression
• It is a pattern of behaviour
• It can be subtle or obvious i.e. overt or covert
• And ... it is intentional. 

Writing this has exhausted me - and taken several days to work through.

Right now, it's enough - more than enough - to leave you, the reader, to chew through, to ponder on.

It's a first step.  A foundation stone in the process of understanding what bullying is.  Why it's important to understand.  And why it should not be tolerated in the workplace.

Until next time....

New Series: What Is Bullying?

In order to get a grasp of what recovery looks like, tastes like, and feels like, it is important to get a grasp of what workplace abuse aka bullying aka psychological harassment aka small "h" harassment (versus big "H" harassment, the kind covered by humans rights legislation) is.  What it does.  How it operates.

What factors cause it to thrive in the workplace.

I've already described my first run in with workplace bullying in a series this summer which ran from roughly late May to sometime in July.  With side trips interspersed here and there along the way to more pleasant locations to relieve the stress.

Writing about this topic is hard.  Living it has been excruciating.  Writing about it while in the process of recovering from it is ... interesting.  Difficult.

It brings back the uncertainty, the emotional upheaval I went through.  So why would I want to revisit these places by writing about them?

Why indeed?

Because I feel that it is necessary.

We, the abused in the workplace, are the voiceless, the faceless, the powerless.

I had no voice.  All voice I had was taken away from me by the incessant gossip rampant in the workplace.

I had no power.  Again, all the power belonged to those who were abusing me.

Why?

I've often asked myself that question.  During ... and after.

Why?  Why did people believe lies?  Why couldn't management, HR and the union see the illogic in the situation?  Why was I forced to sign away all my legal rights in a local donut shop with only a union official present?

Why?

Why?  Because no one in authority i.e. management, HR or the union had the slightest idea of what the phenomenon of bullying was all about.  No one was researching it.  No one had formal, or even informal training, on what was happening.  Yet, ironically, there are tons of resources on the net which could have been accessed.  In this day and age, bullying is becoming more and more evident.  There are agencies which run workshops for employers to open their eyes as to what bullying is - and how to deal with it.  Yet, no one in my workplace was interested.

I had, and still continue to research it on the internet.  But no one believed me.  No one was willing to listen.  No one was willing to sit down at the keyboard and type keywords into a search engine.

It was like I was living in a void.  In isolation.  In denial.  Denial not by me, but denial by those around me. Those who could have - and should have - protected me from the horror of what I was experiencing every day of my working life.

I knew what was happening to me.  I had research, reams of papers printed off the net, to prove it.  But.No.One.Would.Listen.  No.One.Would.Believe.That.I.Knew.What.I.Was.Talking.About.

It was all pushed aside as opinions, assumptions, perceptions.  Never as fact.

One person even went so far as to dismiss my research on the net by saying dismissively that "you can make the net say anything you want."

To be honest, you can.  If you take only one article, one source, that justifies your position.  But I had multiple sources that all said the same, or similar things.  I always wondered if that person had gone to college or university and written research papers.  If she had, she would have known that you need multiple sources to back up your position.  And I had them.

I implored one person to listen to an archived radio broadcast on bullying, but she pushed it aside saying that she wouldn't get the same thing out of it that I did.

That may be true enough.  She is not going to feel the impact because she is not going through what I was going through.  She was a bystander.  An influential bystander being management, but a bystander nonetheless.

So I am going to start laying the foundation by culling from all the papers I've printed off on what bullying is.

Why?  Because to me it is important to give not only myself, but also the thousands of others who are going through workplace abuse or have already gone through it a voice.

Note:  Because of the heavy duty nature of the subject matter, this blog may be on the irregular side posting only once or twice a week.  Or I may intersperse the dialogue with pleasanter, lighter topics such as trips ... or pictures.  Whatever.  I thank each one of you who has stood by me and reads this blog.  

Blessings.

Honouring my Favourite Veterans: my family

I was born in Washington D.C., America's capital city, in 1949, four years after the end of World War II.

The war may have been over, but its memories were not.  It lived on in the tales and lives of those who had been there, done that.  It lived on in the impact it had had on their lives.  It lived on in the very atmosphere of the city I was born and lived in, the nation's capital.  A very real presence.

Mostly the tales were of rationing, of the difficulty of finding a place to live for two newlyweds.

Little was ever spoken about what life in the military was like.  So much of the heritage has been lost.  But the pictures remain.  The pride remains.  Our freedom remains.

My parents wedding picture, 1944

My father had a heart condition and was deemed unfit for military service.  In those days, not wearing a uniform was like being branded with the scarlet letter.  Very noticeable.  And very objectionable.  Those males of a certain age who could not serve were looked at as inferior, as chicken.

My father, therefore, became what he always denigrateingly called a "weekend warrior:"  a man with a full-time day job who served his country by putting on a uniform three or four days a week without pay to guard his country's coast from enemy invasion.  He never really talked about it except in a deprecating way.  In fact, I was always led to believe that these were joy trips around the harbour.  Yet, these men were America's first line of defence against enemy invasion.  (I found this link while trying to find out more about those men like my father who volunteered as weekend warriors The US Home Front 1941-45)

My Uncle Tom, undated photo

Similarly, my Uncle Tom never talked, at least in my hearing, about his military service.  Unlike my father, he saw active duty.  Like my father, though, he had to fight his way to get into the military.  Why?  I'm not sure if he had flat feet or if it was his height - or rather lack thereof.  All I know is that he was a radio operator.  Not where he served.  What he did.

Neither did my Uncle Lanier talk about his time in the service.  I only discovered that he had been in the military a few years back when his hearing was going and he said it was from being a part of a crew in a bomber during WWII.  

Again, it has only been within recent history that I discovered that my grandfather was part of the Manhattan project.  However, there was good reason for that.  Those records were sealed.  The participants sworn to an oath of secrecy.  It is only now when most of those who worked on that project have long since died that their names can be released.  Even to their relatives.  As a child growing up, I only knew that the had been involved in "war work" - whatever that meant.

Ina goes to Washington

My mother also chose to serve.  Women were not allowed in the active military.  In fact, most of the branches were creating their own sub branch for women.  These women, like my mother, mostly served in offices thus freeing up the men to go overseas and do the "real" work - or so I think these spirited young women like my mom thought.  I think they were made to feel superfluous in some ways. Yet, they too served their country - on the home front.  They did the real work of keeping supplies moving.

My mother's class of WAVES (undated)

Today I want to honour all those, past and present, who have (or are currently) served both of my countries:  the U.S., land of my birth and heritage; and Canada, my adopted country.

Thank You.

I'm Baaaaacccccckkkkkk!!!!!

Statue in Ottawa
Often the victim/target/survivor of workplace abuse feels like this statue
geting sh** on

You:
Back?  Back from where ... or what ... you may ask?

Oh yes, you're back blogging ... again.

You've been somewhat erratic in this blogging thing, haven't you?

You start.  Get me reading.  And then the blogs suddenly stop.  Without warning.  For weeks.  Months.

Makes me wonder if you really care about me - your reader.

You get me "hooked" - and then you just take off. 

And then you have the audacity to jump right back into the blog as if nothing had ever happened.  As if you had never left.  Without a word of farewell.

Oh yeah, that's right.  You did kind of ... semi sort of ... give a word of farewell.  At least a temporary one, on your last post when you said you needed a rest.

Who are you?  Rip Van Winkle?

Like how long do you need to rest?

Me: 
 For as long as it takes.  To start getting healthy again.

Oh to be like this young child again
And feel the joy, the wonder of ordinary things
like a balloon

Thus goes an imaginary conversation in my head as I start my first blog post - post rest.  Post a huge chunk of recovery.  Post ...  post whatever has been going on in my life the last few months - and years.

The problem I've found with writing a blog on recovery from workplace abuse is that the recovery is never ending.  It keeps on going.  Sometimes in little baby steps.  Sometimes in bigger steps. Sometimes in a dance step pattern of two steps forward and three steps backward.

Sometimes good.  Sometimes not so good.  Alright.  Sometimes downright bad.

Then there's the daily grind - or I would call it slog.  A bog where the muck is sticky, gluey, making the going hard.  Taking too much energy to even take one step.

Then there's life.

As I've mentioned previously,  life doesn't take a sabbatical or vacation when one is going through workplace abuse or recovering from.

Life goes on.

In my life, that included the death of my mother a year ago.  Further psychiatric injury in the form of a close relative venting at me, taking out all her anger on me.  Another - not so close - relative making my mother's death all about her.  A long trip to bury mom.  A broken wrist.  Job loss of spouse.  And more.  Much more.

All of this takes a toll on the recoveree.   Especially in the realm of energy - which is already severely depleted.

Life events take energy - even good ones.

They all involved stress - even the good ones.

Energy that the recoveree does not have.  Energy the recoveree thinks will never come again.

So, today I come back.

I have a lot to tell.

Good stuff.

Stay tuned for more.

Peace
At least from the outside looking in - or on
A scene from the Isle of Skye, Scotland 2009

God bless each and every one of you who takes the time to read my blog - and especially those who comment.  I hope this helps you on your journey.

Time Out - Permission to Rest on the Road to Recovery

When a child is bad, he (or she) is often put in time out.  A time out of the normal busyness and activities of the day, the house, the school, the setting.  A time to quiet down.  To reflect.  A time perhaps, to separate the past i.e. the misbehaviour, from the present i.e. the time out and be better prepared for the future i.e. after the time out.

What happens, though, when a traumatized person settles into a routine, even a minimal one, and plods along daily, weekly, monthly seeing little or no results?  Plodding. Ever plodding.

Sure, there are some good times.  Some bursts of sunlight.  Moments of joy.  Splashes of joy in the cesspools of life (to borrow a title from one of Barbara Johnson's books).

Yet, overall it's the cesspool that's constant.  The splashes of joy are what makes the journey endurable.

And so it is, at least during this time in my journey through trauma.

I felt worn out and run down.

The little engine that said it could, gave up.  The hill became too steep.  The steam in the engine ran out.

At least for the time being.

I needed a time out badly.  I needed to give myself permission to retreat into that corner of rest before I could go back into the activities of basic living.

But I didn't realize that. All I knew was that I was tired - and getting increasingly more so each day.

Here is where having a competent therapist, one who provides a safe place to express thoughts, explore feelings and above all to be honest, is invaluable.

I felt so run down and worn out that not only was getting up in the morning becoming harder and harder but so were getting dressed and making my appointments:  chiro, massage, now we've added physio to the mix.  And then there's those bi-weekly counselling appointments in a town 45 minutes away.

It was becoming too much.  Way too much.  Not just emotionally but physically.  The spirit was willing; the body was not.

And so, one memorable session, I verbalized as much to my counsellor.  How I didn't really want to be there.  How I felt so down - not so much emotionally, but physically.  How it was getting harder and harder to manage the specifics of actually getting to appointments.

And my counsellor, well worth every penny, well versed in trauma both through her training but also through her personal experiences, gave me permission to rest.

To give myself a time out.  A time out from working so hard on getting better.  A time out to work on physical recovery.

And so I did.

It felt weird.  It still does.  To just give in to the weakness for the time being - and rest.

I feel like this apple tree in my back yard - except that it's currently full of fruit while I don't feel that I have much of anything to offer.  It went through the bad storm we had more than a month back.  It become not exactly broken - but definitely bowed.  The emerging fruit on it's limbs didn't help it, either.  Instead of being fully able to heal from inside, it's strength was divided by having to continue on bearing fruit.

As a traumatized person, desperately trying to recover, I resemble this tree.  Divided between the need to focus all my resources, all my strength on recovering while at the same time dividing my energy, my resources, on the external parts of recovery.

So I am giving myself permission to rest and regroup.  

More tomorrow ... unless I'm resting.