Friday, October 31, 2014

Post Workplace Abuse: The difference between the outside veneer and the inside reality

How I look on the outside to most people
As I wrote in yesterday's blog, appearances are deceiving.  What looks really good, whole and put together on the outside, may not be what is going on on the inside.  And probably isn't.

I remember years ago witnessing an incident in our church where the Sunday School teachers were gathered together with the pastor to learn more about their classes as the current Sunday School year had ended and a new one was to begin.  When he mentioned the specific classes, he blithely stated that one had been cancelled due to small numbers.  I noticed the teacher in question maintained a stoic face, i.e. her expression did not change at all, but she took a quick step backward almost as if she'd been slapped.  She was a mainstay in the church.  One who was always there with a smile on no matter what. Quick to help out.  Quick to give.  Faithful.  Now her faithfulness over the years was "rewarded" ... by what amounted to an unexpected, sudden, and public dismissal

I wondered how she was taking it.  If she was OK.

BUT ...

... I never got up the nerve to ask her how she was doing.

Instead I observed her over the weeks to come.  She looked OK.  Outwardly, she was her normal self.   She came to every service faithfully escorting her elderly mother just as she'd done for years.  Neither about her outward appearance or behaviour seemed changed.  Outside, she was the same person she'd always been.

Inside may well have been another story as she was dealing with a category #5 hurt (using the hurricane scale with #1 as the least destructive hurricane and #5 the most).

 A few months after that incident, she stopped going to our church.  No fanfare.  No announcement.  She simply wasn't there anymore.  A woman who had been a rock to our congregation including our pastors.  A woman who was faithful in her attendance even with an aged ailing mother to care for.  Even when the Sunday School class that she'd taught for years was suddenly and publicly taken away from her.

Gone.  Suddenly gone.

And I'd never taken the initiative to show my concern.  To ask her how she was doing.  Really doing. Inside where it counted.

Instead I looked on the outside for clues.  And there were none.

To this day, I regret that I didn't go up to her and ask her how she was.  Show my concern.

Several years later, it was my turn for such action.  However, I did get advance notice.  Probably because I was friends with the pastor's wife and had actually said:  "Is he going to restart my class with other teachers without telling me?"

He did.  And he did.  BUT he did tell me first.

His exact words were:  'I want someone younger."

Ironically, if age were a factor than he would give himself, his wife, the organist, the pianist and probably a whole host of others the axe.  All of them significantly older than myself.  So that was just a smokescreen for something else.

It hurt.  It hurt a lot.  Even though I saw it coming and halfway expected it, that didn't stop the raw hurt or the raw emotion.

I did my best to cover it up and remain faithful as my predecessor had done.  Only in my case, I started experiencing horrible, almost constant migraines.  Attending church under the circumstances became a battle for me.  The hurt almost palpable BUT invisible to those around me.  We left the church a few months after that.  By that time, it was obvious something was wrong because of the constant pain of the migraines showing on my face.  But no one connected the dots.  Only one person asked me how I was doing - and that was on the last Sunday we attended.  By that time, it was too late.

We tend to look on the outside.  If a person is up, dressed, has their hair combed and doesn't stink, we seem to feel that they're OK.  We don't go beyond the surface.

Maybe because we don't want to be intrusive.

Maybe because we really don't want to know.

Maybe because we're afraid of what we'll hear.

Maybe because we really don't have the time or the inclination to get into someone else's world, someone else's hurt.

Maybe ....

Having now been on both sides of the spectrum, if I were to do it again, I would reach out in a low key manner to that woman.  I would tell her that I was there and what I saw.  I would ask how her she was doing with the elimination of her class.  I would tell her how much her faithfulness to the church impressed and inspired me.  That no matter what the pastor thought or did, she mattered and that was valued.

In short, I would let her know that I cared about her and her well-being.  I wouldn't judge her.  Although I might have a few choice words to saw about the pastor.

But I would definitely be inclined to stop looking at the outside appearance, the outside veneer, and go deeper.

What I really feel like inside most of the time

I don't want to pastor bash in this blog.  That is not my intention.  It's also not my intention to give Christianity and Christians a bad name.  Especially since I are one. (Although after some of my experiences, I tend to believe that Christians are a bad advertisement.)

However, since I am a committed Christian many of my experiences, both positive and negative, have occurred within church settings.  The story told here could easily have occurred within any setting, any group of people.  It's just the one that I witnessed.

Years later, I ran across this woman at the local Farmer's Market.  Since I had long regretted my lack of action immediately after the incident, I took the opportunity to let her know that I was sorry, deeply sorry, that I had not gone up to her and asked her how she was.  Let her know that I cared.  It was then that she told me her story.  How she felt inside under the put together appearance.  How hurt she had been after all her years of service to the church to be put out to pasture so to speak so suddenly and publicly.  And how unexpected that announcement was.

I got a second chance to let that woman know I cared.  But most of us do not.

If you know of someone in your life who might be hurting, I urge you to go beyond the surface, beyond the well put together outside and let them know you care.

Until tomorrow....

Thursday, October 30, 2014

Recovery Post Workplace Abuse: Appearances are deceiving.

Me on a a good day.  I appear to have it all together.
(at the World Wide Knit in Public Day last spring)

I've learned many things on this journey.  Some I've already written about in earlier - much earlier - posts, yet it appears that there is always something else coming down the pike to learn.  Just as the journey is ongoing and doesn't seem to ever stop or end, so goes the learning curve.  There is always something new to learn on this journey.

As I've written in an earlier post, during this time frame I've been thinking about friends.  Not just how to be a friend, as I wrote about in an earlier post about a woman who not only impacted me greatly in a positive sense by being my friend when I needed one but also by teaching me how to be a friend.

I've been thinking seriously about friends because of an experience I had during this past year.  I tried to be a friend to someone.  Someone hurting.  Someone who badly needed a friend.  I thought that with all the things I've learned on the journey of recovery that I could walk with her and help her in her journey towards recovery from her life circumstances.

It didn't happen.

The relationship turned out badly and I eventually had to walk away from this hurting person, hurting her even further in the process (which I'm not proud of).  I learned that I'm not as strong as I thought I was.  While I may have been strong enough to walk with her on her journey, I was not strong enough to carry her.  Heck!  I can't even carry myself!  Even hubby can't carry me.  Nor would I expect him too.

Yes, I have had an amazing amount of recovery, but there are still those pesky weak spots within my make up.  Those "Achillies' heels" in my makeup which make me vulnerable in some ways.

I learned something important during this time frame.  Appearances are deceiving.  To the outside eye, a person who doesn't know me, where I've come from, my struggles, etc., I appear pretty good.  In the vernacular:  I clean up pretty good.

To the panhandler on the street, I look like a good target - especially when I'm having a good day and have that bright smile on my face.  One of the luxuries I've managed to keep during this sojourn through trauma and drastically reduced financial income is my once-every-eight-week hair appointment with a good stylist.  So, unless I'm coming due for another session with her, I look pretty good together, even on days when I'm wondering if I have the strength to get on the bus and go back home.

When I'm having a good day, I come across as being very positive.  Being a woman who knows, in a positive sense, who she is.

I bought lots of nice clothes, etc. when I was still working and had money to spend, and I enjoy wearing them now.  In short, I don't look like someone whose life is a daily struggle to recover, to get on top and stay on top.  To the uninitiated, I look like I have it all.

Similarly, to this person who I tried to cultivate as a friend, I had things she didn't have - and wanted badly.  Friends.  A support system.  Family.  Most of all, a husband.

I tried to explain to her that it wasn't always like this.  I've worked hard for years on these relationships.  I've been with a competent therapist for seven years now paying every single cent of her fee from my own pocket with no outside help.  Because recovery is that important to me.

Things haven't magically or mysteriously fallen into my hand.  I've worked hard for every single particle of recovery I've experienced.  At some points I've worked on recovery 24/7 - and gotten weary.  Yet, I've persevered.

Because. It. Is. That. Important.

As I've healed and gotten slowly stronger, I've been able to go out and do things with hubby. Things I enjoy - like taking pictures.  Things which help in the healing process.  Outings which provide good memories to think back on.  Positive things.  To the outside observer, with our bantering behaviour, etc., we appear like any other middle-class, "mature" couple.  No one would guess the journey we've been through on this road to recovery from emotional trauma.  Not unless we clued them in.

Four projects - one hat and three headbands - being blocked
Then there's the right brain stuff.  I'm a left brain type of person.  My mind is constantly active.  Thinking.  Analyzing.  Trying to make logical sense out of the illogic that happened to me in the workplace.  Without some sort of intervention or therapy, I will never get any rest from this constant onslaught.  Therefore, I knit.  I crochet.  I write.  I watch DVDs.  I take pictures.

I blog.

I do these things not because I can financially not work and, therefore, am able to indulge myself in my "hobbies", but because this is the way I stay sane.  This is the way I work through all of the turmoil.  I find peace when I've got those needles in my hands.  When I see the finished product, I feel like I've accomplished something.  When I place an article I've made in a loving home, I feel like I've contributed something to the outside world.  It helps me see that I have value.  I have worth.  And there's always another project - or two or three - in my mind to start when the current one is finished.

The latest project on my needles (photo taken just a few minutes ago):  a Santa hat
Appearances are deceiving.  Very deceiving.  No one lives a charmed life.  I hope I haven't just busted your balloon with these words that no one lives a charmed life.  But it's true.

Life happens, no matter what we've planned.

Until next time (hopefully tomorrow)....

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Post Workplace Abuse: Therapy

Today is what I call my "Stratford" day - the day I travel to nearby Stratford, Ontario and see the counsellor who has walked with me through this entire journey - or at least the last seven years of it.  The reason I'm still alive.  The reason I'm doing as well as I am.  The woman who provided a safe place for me to vent my emotions, explore my feelings and be myself.  The one place I felt unconditionally acceptaed even when I was at my worst and expressed feelings that would shock others.

No, she's not a saint.  She's just a person, same as you and me.  However, she's a person who knows about trauma and is thus equipped to deal with trauma's victims.  She has also undergone her own traumas.

Plus she shares the same faith as myself.  In fact, she has told me several times that in the early days of her practice, she felt that it was her doing the healing.  Until she had a talk with God.  Or rather he had a talk with her and told her that it was not her doing the healing but Him doing the healing through her.

And that is what makes her both amazing and unusual.  She doesn't try to force her will on her clients like my first therapist did.  The one who became abusive because I was not "moving forward".  I was not healing.  I was stuck.  She never realized that her methodology was what was holding me back and preventing recovery from happening.  As I recover step by painful step, I now realize that this first therapist was probably frustrated and was venting her frustration at me, thus victimizing and abusing me further.  I also realize that I am now getting to where  I realize this first therapist probably wanted me to be BUT her methodology was not going to get me there.  Unfortunately.

I've gone through some very significant healing in the last year.  It was almost exactly a year ago that my personality - the real me, the me hidden inside and scared to come out - reemerged.  It was strange, scary and exciting - all rolled into one ball.

In the weeks and months that followed the reemergence of the "real" me, I've found myself able to do things I couldn't have done before.

I travelled to Belize alone.  Travelling alone wasn't planned but when it happened, I was able to deal and deal well with the change.  I was so proud of myself.  And so where those who love me and support me.  Actually, I think there were really, really worried when they found out that I was travelling alone but rallied around me through iPhone and computer during the journey so that I never felt alone.

I was able to work more in my garden this past summer.  I still have weeds, but I really enjoyed the flowers and even added to the garden.  In my mind I'm starting to have a vision of what I'd like "Mom's" garden to become.  Not today, not tomorrow, but eventually.

The creativity is reemerging big time.  I'm able to do more around the house and, most days, I can cook.  I can even read recipes!  And patterns!  Most of the time.

I've been continuing to work on those relationships close to me:  my family; hubby's family whom I have grown to love and cherish during these past years; friends.

For years, I kept people at arm's lengths.  Acquaintances more than friends.  For the past several years, I've been working on changing acquaintances into friends.  Real friends.  I've been learning what it means to be a friend to others.  It's hard work and it doesn't happen overnight, but it's well worth the effort.

I can sense that my days with my counsellor are numbered.  We've been backing off for the last several months from every two weeks, to every four and now to every six.  Knowing that at any time if the condition worsens and I feel I need more help, I can change things.  My therapist has given me power and control over my therapy.  She has given me the gift of being in charge of my own recovery.  She has been my biggest cheerleader.

Cheerleaders are important, very important, in the process of recovery.

Today as I go back to see her, I have a lot to discuss.  A lot has happened in the last six weeks.  Things, like the sudden stoppage of our mail delivery and the triggers it pushed within me, have come close to unhinging me.

Yet, I know that at some point I need to become strong enough to stand alone with only occasional help - or with help from friends and family.

I need to learn to walk on my own two feet.

I need to realize what has pushed my buttons and learn how to defuse them for future situations.

I've definitely felt weak these last weeks physically, emotionally and spiritually.  Yet, I sense that this is part of life.  Even the lives of those who are "normal".  Who haven't been traumatized by workplace bullying.

So today, I get dressed and head out to Stratford - the place were recovery started.

Monday, October 27, 2014

Surviving Workplace Abuse: Moving past the trauma

Last week began with high hopes to put the resurgent traumas behind me and move forward - even if only a little bit.  One tiny step at a time.  To learn to live with "what is" rather than with "what I want it to be".  To form new coping techniques to fit the situation I am in at present.

By this, I'm referring to what to some might call the "grain of sand in my shoes" - the on-going situation with the mail delivery - or rather lack thereof.

It has hit me - and the other residents on my street - hard because there was no way any of us could have foreseen this.  We were well and truly blindsided when a new postie, who apparently wanted this route, took over and discovered there were some difficulties she hadn't foreseen  i.e. the detour which has caused more traffic on our road.  She was unprepared to work in this situation, even though she had wanted this route, and very quickly, probably within days, of taking over the route played the "safety" card.

With a powerful union such as CUPW (Canadian Union of Postal Workers) behind her, using the safety card guaranteed her of several things.  One:  that she would be granted her wishes of not working the parts of the route she didn't like.  Two:  that there would not be any repercussions for her.  No discipline.  No write-ups.  Nothing negative on her record.  Three:  that she cannot lose her job or her route.

Because she's played the safety card, no one can take over the route.

She is untouchable.

She has all the power and the control.

Even when she jeers at residents and taunts them when they ask when they're going to get their mail delivery back, she is untouchable.

Even though she apparently has trouble delivering the right mail into the right boxes on the parts of the route she is delivering to.

She can severely impact our lives, our routines, even our health because of her "rights".  Not only the rights she has due to government safety legislation, but also more extensive rights under her binding union agreement.

She has the right not to walk on the grass.  Which to me makes no sense as the grassy area adjacent to the road is city-owned and is safe.

She has the right to make a "safety" complaint without fear of reprisal.

She has the right basically, from my perspective, to do what she pleases.

She has the voice.

She has the power.

Any complaints we make such as allegations based on my research that she is a toxic employee or that she is incompetent because of the misdelivery of mail fall in deaf ears.  We are not Canada Post employees; therefore, we have no rights.  Period.

We are left with nothing.

No power.  No control.  No voice.  No representation.  No communication as to what we can expect.

Not even the community mailbox which we were promised would be delivered and installed within the first week.

We are left up in the air to wonder what is going on.  Will we ever get our mail back once the construction on the street below us is completed - which should be soon?  Or will this continue?  Is the stoppage permanent?

I was told two weeks ago that the community boxes were being shipped.  Unfortunately, the postal supervisor did not inform me exactly where those boxes were being shipped to.  Wherever, they're going, it apparently isn't to our area.  We still don't have them.

We are entering our fourth week of the situation and coping as best we can.  One resident is stopping by the distribution centre once a week and picking up the mail for 15-16 residents and delivering it to their doors.


I began last week with high hopes of putting this behind me.  Of working through the trauma.  Of finding creative ways to cope with our altered situation.  Of resuming my life, post workplace abuse, as I know it.  Of writing my blog daily again.

But ....

... life intervened as it has a habit of doing.

I got sick.  The shooting in Ottawa, my nation's capital happened.  A relative in hubby's extended family passed away.  The funeral for this relative.  A birthday celebration for an aged relative, also in the same part of the extended family.  And I can't remember what else.

The mind stopped working.  The body was definitely having its issues and taking its time getting back to normal - whatever normal is.  

The creative juices stopped flowing.  Lethargy became my constant companion.

But today, we start a new week.  A fresh slate.


I will only have this day once in my entire life.  As I start it, I ask myself:  "What will I make of today."

That is a question only time can answer.

Until tomorrow ....

Monday, October 20, 2014

Surviving Workplace Abuse: The Place of Friends

I once bought a friend a cup with the slogan:  "Friends are the chocolate chips in the cookies of life."

Friends are the chocolate chips in the cookies of life.


I've been thinking of writing a blog posting about friends for months now.  It all began when I ended up in a "friendship" which became harmful for my health.  I kept on trying though because this person was deeply wounded, just like I am.  She needed friends, just like I do.  She was hurting, just like I am.  I was hoping to have a friendship based on mutuality such as doing things together, talking, etc.  Instead our relationship became very one-sided with me giving and her taking.  She become more and more demanding of my time and what limited energy and resources I had.

While I had a fair understanding through my own journey of some of her issues and problems, she had no understanding of mine.  To her I was all "put together".  I had "everything" as in a husband and family.  I "didn't have to work" and could "enjoy my hobbies".  In short, I had things she wanted but was not achieving.  I believe she became jealous because she didn't have those things.  These were all things this hurting soul threw at me - and more.  Sometimes in a very forceful way.

Yet, nothing could have been further from the truth.

I struggle.  Sometimes daily.

My cognitive skills go up and down.  And when they go down ... they go way DOWN.

Many days I cope by staying inside my safe house especially in my safe room doing those things which stimulate peace and healing - like my right brain therapies, crocheting and knitting.  Yet, the very things I use - and need - to keep stable and heal became things she ridiculed.

The difference between us was that I had learned many coping mechanisms such as my right brain therapy of knitting and crocheting.  I had spent years building up a small, working support system.  I had spent years ... and thousands of dollars ... on therapy - and continue to do so.

In short, I had worked ... and worked hard ... to get where I am.

Yet, when I suggested any of these things, she would forcefully rebuff me.  What good would it do to get counselling?  They couldn't fix her.  They couldn't make the hurt go away, the pain.

And that's true.  There are no magic wands.  BUT ... they can guide us into ways of helping ourselves, of helping us see ourselves more clearly and find ways that will help us get out of our situations step by painful step at a time.

A huge problem with this relationship was that neither of us realized that I am still wounded.  Very wounded.  Appearances can be very deceiving.  To her, I looked strong and put together.  Yet, I still have weak spots.  I may have been strong enough to walk with this dear soul, but I was not strong enough to carry her.

Finally, I had to back out of the relationship for my own sake.  I simply wasn't strong enough.

And I'm still not.

This relationship caused me to think a lot about what friendships, healthy friendships, look like.  And how they happen.

To be honest, I don't think friendships happen by design.  At least not in  my life.

I look back to a friendship that had a huge impact on my life that started in the least likely of ways - and lasted for years.

The cat that brought N and I together
I met N when she came over to adopt my cat.  She then invited me to come over and visit her and the cat.  We clicked during that first meeting.  We were the same age.  We both liked cats.  We were both creative people.

I now realize that N needed people in her life just as I needed people in my life.  But not just any people.  She needed people in her life who would accept her and value her just as she was.  So did I.

Poor.  Needy.  On disability.  With health issues.  Yet, N lived life to the fullest within her circumstances.  She had a zest for living that I've rarely seen in other people.  Hubby called her an "odd duck" yet, to me, odd ducks are the unique ones, the uncommon ones.  When I go to the nearby river for walks, I see mallards, geese and seagulls by the dozen.  They're commonplace.  What I'm looking for are the uncommon ones.  The rare ones.  Like the odd blue heron and common merganser or even the commerant.  Like the chocolate chips in cookies, the odd ducks, the characters, the people who broke the mold when they were born, are the ones who add flavour to our lives.

N was such a person in my life.  She was a friend when I needed one.  When I came over to visit, she would make me flavoured coffee and proudly tell me she'd gotten it at the dollar shop.  She would treat me like royalty, give me the best seat in the house, and we would talk.  She would share with me her life.  She would proudly show me the treasures she'd gotten from the food bank, which apparently has more to offer than food.  We shared a bond I've rarely had with another human being in my adult life:  unconditional acceptance on both sides.

N taught me so many things about friendship which I still treasure to this day.  When I would visit, she would write me a note afterwards.  She couldn't afford much, but she would find treasures in the thrift shops where she volunteered to gift me with.

But the most important thing she taught me was how to be a friend.  When she felt the friendship was too one-sided as in she was doing all the phoning and outreach, she would gently rebuke me and say "friends don't treat friends this way".

She taught me how to be a friend probably without even realizing it.

The last time I saw her a stomach thing was going around in our area and I was on the verge of taking a trip to Myrtle Beach.  But when N asked me to come, I came.  That's what friends do.  N wasn't well.  We thought it was the stomach thing that was going around.  She asked me to take the cat to the shelter as she wasn't able to care for him.  So I did.  That's what friends do.  She told me that if she didn't get better by a certain time, she would call the ambulance to take her to the hospital as she didn't have a way to get there herself.  Maybe I should have pushed her and taken her there myself right then and there.  That's what a real friend would have done.  But I didn't.  I was caught up in my own life - and frankly she didn't ask me to.

I did, though, tell her that during that last visit how much she meant to me as a friend.  I'm glad now that I did.

I worried about her while I was gone even thinking of calling her long distance a few times.  That's what friends do.  I called repeatedly her as soon as I got back home from my trip but received no answer.  Then her phone was disconnected.

It took several weeks before I discovered that my friend had died while I was away.

I still mourn her loss.  I still miss her and I still remember her and the things she taught me.  About living life to the fullest even with disabilities.  About friendship.  About how to be a friend.  The things she taught me are still with me - and in a way, she is too in the memories.


As I look at N and at others who have come into my life, I see more and more that friendships are not something one can plan.  They just sort of happen.  A person, a stranger, comes into your life - and stays.  The longer they stay, the less strange they become.

I don't now if this will become the beginning or a series or rather a theme which I will revisit from time to time.

Yet, one thing I want those people in my life who know me - and love and value me anyway - you are important to me.  I value and appreciate you.

And that's as it should be.

Until tomorrow (I hope)....

Friday, October 17, 2014

Surviving Workplace Abuse: Where I'm At Today

For those of you who are wondering where I've been and why I've not written anything lately, I assure you that I have not been on vacation.  I haven't been anywhere nice, exciting or fun.  I've been holed up in my little safe room.  Down - again - for the count.

It seems to be a pattern.  I seem to be making real progress and then life hits me where I'm most vulnerable with something new.  Something unexpected.  Something I have absolutely no control over.

I've been in the midst of one of the most severe relapses I've had for a very long time.  In some ways, I feel like I'm right back in the middle of the abusive situation at work.

I've started I don't know how many blog posts in the last week, but none seemed to go anywhere.  Getting words out - both verbally and written - has been very difficult.

I've not been sleeping or eating.  It's been hard once again to follow directions either verbally or written which makes it difficult to engage in my favorite right brain therapy - knitting.  Or writing.  Or even reading.  The mind has shut down.  Gone on strike.

So I've decided to write this blog just as though I'm talking to an old friend, explaining the situation.  What's going on my life that has triggered me so badly.

To others this may seem like small potatoes but to someone like me who stays home a lot, routine and consistency is important.

So is safety.

As is the feeling of power and control.

All of which got ripped out of my hand by someone(s) who don't even know me.  They've never met me.

We've been in the mist of a major road construction project.  Actually, my area is riddled with them.  In Canada, we seem to have two seasons:  winter and road work.  Guess which season we're currently in which thankfully is winding down now that we're close to the end of October - we hope.

I live three blocks inside the city limits in an older community.  Actually, its kind of mixed as there are older homes and residents who've lived most of their lives here along with newer development in patches where there once was a field or park or even a drive- in theatre.
If traffic is not going one way ....

My street is also, and has been for many years, a pass through to go out of town. We have had an increase in traffic since late spring when our street became the detour and thus the major route into and out of town due to construction.

The traffic as well as the lack of sidewalks has never really been an issue.


We got a new postie who I've been informed wanted this route.  Whether she wanted this route or not, she apparently was not prepared for what she found.  Which with my logical mind doesn't make much sense.  If she wanted this route and specifically asked for it, didn't she know what she was getting into?  Apparently not.'s going the other, kind of like a picket fence
She stopped our mail delivery.  We had no inkling this was in the works.  After all, we'd been in the construction and detour situation for four months already by this time with approximately one month to go.  We were all just about ready to give a collective sigh of relief when the traffic pattern went back to normal.  Or so we thought.

This women decided our neighbourhood was not "safe" for her because of the increased traffic due to the detour.  She also threw in the rate of speed of drivers coming into town and the lack of sidewalks for good measure.  (In case you're interested, our street is part 2 of the construction project scheduled to start next year.)  We'll be getting the sidewalks.  The plans have been in the works for years.  In fact, in most areas of our street, including our home, there is a wide area fronting the street which actually belongs to the city for the purpose of putting in the sidewalk.  Which again, and I know I'm repeating myself, is scheduled for installation next year.

Apparently, though it's going to be one year too late.

As a neighbourhood, we were blindsided.  This closure came out of left field, catching all of us off guard.

Especially me.  As we've tried to liaise with the supervisor who did his own "investigation", we find ourselves more and more powerless, voiceless, faceless.

He - and the postie - have all the power.  She has a powerful union on her side.  He, as the supervisor, has the same union on his back.  If he does one thing wrong, he can get into trouble with the union.  As we've talked, the huge imbalance of power has become more and more evident.  Like a teeter totter with a  huge man at one end and a tiny child on the other.  Who's gonna be stuck permanently up in the air?  You got it.  Not the person with all the weight.  He (or she) has complete control over the youngster stuck at the top.  That person isn't going anywhere until he says so.  And he (going back to the supervisor) is not prepared to let the youngster get down and off.

This situation, this lack of power and control, has triggered me badly.  So badly that I've had a recurrence of anxiety related problems.  At times. I've been unable to eat or sleep.  Unable to talk coherently or track a simple conversation.  Yesterday, I worked the same row on a cabled headband I'm knitting several times.  Since this is headband #3 in the same pattern in about a week, I've got the pattern down pat in my mind.  But my mind isn't working.  It isn't contacting the fingers.  There's a distinct break.

Personally, I'd like to lie down on the bed, curl up in the fetal position, drag the covers over my head and stay there.

I'm so tired of fighting.  I'm so tired of working so hard to recover.  I'm so tired of having no control over my own life, my own path.

I'm so tired of supervisors who do subjective investigations.  Of supervisors who only pretend to listen.  Who talk over you.  Who threaten to end the conversation because "we're not getting anywhere".  I'm tired of people I perceive as bullies or as incompetent impacting my life.  I'm just so tired....

I think the situation would be different, more bearable, if we had had some participation in the process.  But that's not how it works.

The last time I talked with the supervisor, he dissed me over and over.  I can say whatever I want to, but it has no impact on our situation.  His decision is apparently made.  Canada Post, apparently, has a three year plan to eliminate all home delivery putting up community boxes in place of home delivery.  Which might be OK, IF everything was done in a professional, planned manner so that there was a smooth transition from home delivery to community mailbox delivery.  The community mail boxes are installed approximately one city block apart.

The problem is, because of the postie's complaint, there is no plan to resort to, to implement sooner.  They can't install the boxes until we get the sidewalks - which as I've said before are scheduled for installation next year.  The postie can't walk on the grass - union regs.  Because the safety card has been played, under union regs they cannot ask another postie to take the route.

He refuses to entertain the notion that this woman might be toxic i.e. a bully.  I mentioned this several times in our last conversation.  The last time, he simply said "I don't agree."

Power and control.  Big time.

I've said many times that I don't think he did a thorough investigation.  He has made no effort to slow down the traffic by having the police involved.  He has made no effort to look at statistics to see if there has been an increase in accidents on our street in the last four months.  However, he counters that he did "due diligence".  What, pray tell, is due diligence in this case?  At the moment, I'm waiting to hear from Ontario Heath and Safety what due diligence means in our situation.

I am angry.  Very angry.  At a woman I've never even seen.  At a woman who came into my neighbourhood to do a job and within days, shut us down.

I am so tired of being powerless.  Of being faceless.  And most of all - of being voiceless.

Sometimes, recovery just doesn't seem worth it.


I usually try to leave on a positive note.  Something upbeat.  Something encouraging.

Today, unfortunately, is the exception to the rule.

Until next time - whenever it may be....

This picture was taken a month or so ago on the street undergoing extensive road work.  It's almost ready to re-open.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Surviving Workplace Abuse: A sense of humour works wonders

It's difficult to find a picture in my archives that's funny.  Partially because what is funny to one person, may not be to another.  Also because when we are stuck in our situation whether it be trauma, PTSD, active workplace bullying, or even a chronic illness, it is very hard to see the humour in anything.  It also seems like a travesty to be able to smile, let alone laugh, when we're going through he**.

I've been there, I should know.

Yet, I have found laughter to be a huge source of healing in the midst of the journey.  My therapist has always said that one of my hugest strengths in the battle is that I never lost my admittedly weird and wacky sense of humour.  I came close a few times, but I never truly lost it.

In the Bible, Proverbs 22:17 says:  A joyful heart is good medicine, But a broken spirit dries up the bones. (NASB).  The word "joyful" is translated in other versions to be merry or cheerful.

I memorized that verse decades ago, yet during this time of bleakness, pain and confusion, I've brought it out, polished it up on my t-shirt bottom and looked at it again and again.

A merry heart doeth good like a medicine but a broken spirit drieth up the bones.  OK.  I confess.  I memorized it in the King James.  But the message is the same.  I can either choose to laugh or I can allow my bones to dry up.  I can allow the situation to suck out all the strength, all the life from me.

In an article my Mary Fairchild entitled "The Healing Power of Laughter", I found this list of benefits from laughing:

  • Decrease in stress hormone levels
  • Strengthening of the immune system
  • Muscle relaxation
  • Pain reduction
  • Lowering of blood pressure
  • Cardiovascular conditioning
  • Natural anti-depressant
Now, I've never done a clinical study on psychology ... which stands to reason since I'm not a psychologist or anything close to it.  But I do know the effect a good laugh has on my mood when I'm not doing so well.  I do know that laughter seems to make everything seem a little less bad, a little brighter, even a little more hopeful.

Just a few nights ago, an American "friend" on Facebook who lives somewhere in Europe started a thread about what comprised a "typical" - if there is any such thing - Canadian Thanksgiving as she's having friends over to celebrate it.  She tagged several individuals on this thread who she knew were either Canadian or had an outrageous sense of humour.  She invited us to get as creative and outrageous as we could.  And we did.  It turns out I'm not the only seriously deranged person out there.  It was so much fun.  It took me outside my small room, my safe place, my routine, my problems and brought - even if for just a few hours - a huge bright spot of fun, creativity and relief.  Plus a few belly laughs as we thought up the craziest ways we could to celebrate a Canadian Thanksgiving from maple syrup, to moose to beer and German dancers in lederhosen and dirndls  (the Canadian Thanksgiving coincides with Oktoberfest celebrations in some localities) which got translated as the thread moved along to drunken German dancers dancing on the moose.  After we'd all had a good laugh, the thread then turned more serious.  And that was good too.  To really get into what Thanksgiving is all about - after we'd all had our fill of hilarity that is.

For me, that thread on Facebook was like a very refreshing mini vacation from life.  It only lasted a short while, yet the memory still brightens my face and my attitude as I remember it and the camaraderie we shared for such a brief time.

Likewise, my outing yesterday which was supposed to be a bus trip to the library to return two DVDs - one of which was due that day.  I hurried out of the house to catch the bus and was already on the bus which was in the process of pulling away from my stop when I realized I had brought my knitting but had forgotten the DVDs.   I had a couple of options - getting off at the next stop and walking back to the house for the DVDs and taking the next bus in 30 minutes OR going on.  Asking the driver to stop so I could run back for my DVDs was definitely not an options.  I chose to go on anyway as I had some checks to deposit plus one to cash.  At the bank I discovered just how fouled up my cognitive processes were that day..   I only had the two checks to deposit.

Now what do you do in that situation?  I told the teller I apparently was not having the best of days because of ... da da da ... and she started to laugh.  In fact, we both laughed.  Because in reality it was pretty funny - depending on what angle you're looking at it from.  It turns out this woman has had her own "I can't believe I did this" moments such as boarding the wrong bus to go home and finding herself at the end of the line in a totally different community from where she had intended to go.  Laughing at the memory she told me, it's fun to not always been on top of things.  I found out that I could go from here to (the name of the community) in an hour and I could still get back home on my transfer.

Hubby and I find humour sometimes in the most unlikely of places.  Travelling by car around Scotland in 2009, we found this sign.  And died laughing.  What type of "plant" i.e. tree was trying to cross the road here?  We still take this memory out on occasion and speculate as to whether it was a maple ... or maybe an oak.  How about a sequoia?  Whatever it was, it must've been BIG.

A sense of humour.  It makes the unpalatable more palatable.

It comes at unexpected moments.  Yet, every time it comes, it lessens the load a little and brightens the day.

A sense of humour not only makes my journey of recovery post workplace abuse more palatable, it also makes my survival and eventual complete recovery more likely.  It gives me the proverbial knot at the end of the rope to hang on to.

Whatever you do, don't lose your sense of humour.

However, if you have I urge you to go find it.

It'll come in handy on the journey.

Until tomorrow....