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Now I am angry
Oct. 4th, 2015 09:03 amSomeone close to me is being bullied at work.
They are a nurse in Guy's and St Thomas' Hospital. Their manager has had no idea, and now they've sent said manager an email. They have asked me to accompany them to their GP on monday. Of course I'll do that - and if they need me to go with them to the hospital I'll do that too.
But I am very angry, and write this to bring myself out of this rage.
Dad told me there was only one way to deal with bullies. You had to fight them, physically, viciously make the point, until fighting you was an option they didn't want to face. My dad was mainly a verbal/emotional bully, but Christ on a bike, when the mood took him, he was terrifying. He could smile one minute and on the turn of a sixpence pound a man's head into a car bonnet. If he got hurt in a fight, he wouldn't notice it for ages, he would just keep going. Of course, booze played a part in his iron constitution/psychotic thickheadedness, but it was part of his background too, post war Glasgow. While he was not a Gorbals child, Easterhouse and Cranhill had knife gangs and gangsters aplenty. He used to tell me of how it was when he was little, watching these Glasgow women fight each other on street corners outside of pubs; they would strip to their waists, tying their clothes up around their hips, and go for each other with cut-throat razors, scars and breasts and blood everywhere.
No wonder he got away. Vicious enough to survive fights, smart enough to know life should be better than that. Saturday night squaddie fights in a south west English town must have seemed a pretty picnic. I never saw him scared of anything. I spent half my school life fighting bullies. Perhaps his example instilled in me whatever it took to grab the knife and fight for hours... his way may be crazy but it has its uses in extreme times.
This is not an extreme time. Thinking of my gentle friend, crying and losing weight and going to the doctor because of these bullies makes me nearly lose my temper. I must remember that it's not the way. I must not be like Dad... today I feel that ready fury, and today it is particularly inappropriate, because we are scattering Mark's ashes. Daft Bint will probably be there. What I must not to is transfer my utter rage at these bullies into my irritation with her. Becoming a problem myself helps no-one.
Chill. Humour. Think. Chill.
They are a nurse in Guy's and St Thomas' Hospital. Their manager has had no idea, and now they've sent said manager an email. They have asked me to accompany them to their GP on monday. Of course I'll do that - and if they need me to go with them to the hospital I'll do that too.
But I am very angry, and write this to bring myself out of this rage.
Dad told me there was only one way to deal with bullies. You had to fight them, physically, viciously make the point, until fighting you was an option they didn't want to face. My dad was mainly a verbal/emotional bully, but Christ on a bike, when the mood took him, he was terrifying. He could smile one minute and on the turn of a sixpence pound a man's head into a car bonnet. If he got hurt in a fight, he wouldn't notice it for ages, he would just keep going. Of course, booze played a part in his iron constitution/psychotic thickheadedness, but it was part of his background too, post war Glasgow. While he was not a Gorbals child, Easterhouse and Cranhill had knife gangs and gangsters aplenty. He used to tell me of how it was when he was little, watching these Glasgow women fight each other on street corners outside of pubs; they would strip to their waists, tying their clothes up around their hips, and go for each other with cut-throat razors, scars and breasts and blood everywhere.
No wonder he got away. Vicious enough to survive fights, smart enough to know life should be better than that. Saturday night squaddie fights in a south west English town must have seemed a pretty picnic. I never saw him scared of anything. I spent half my school life fighting bullies. Perhaps his example instilled in me whatever it took to grab the knife and fight for hours... his way may be crazy but it has its uses in extreme times.
This is not an extreme time. Thinking of my gentle friend, crying and losing weight and going to the doctor because of these bullies makes me nearly lose my temper. I must remember that it's not the way. I must not be like Dad... today I feel that ready fury, and today it is particularly inappropriate, because we are scattering Mark's ashes. Daft Bint will probably be there. What I must not to is transfer my utter rage at these bullies into my irritation with her. Becoming a problem myself helps no-one.
Chill. Humour. Think. Chill.
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