|Picture source Sandy Holloway|
I was already a bit apprehensive about going to work however I had been assured that Mr Bully would not be working on Friday.
Friday 27th December 2013 7:30am Mr Bully with his pigeon chest and gunslinger swagger walk comes through the barriers and heads to his office. I had seen him come through and already the back of my shirt was damp with sweat.
I had told them I could not work for or with him without the senior manger being available. The two complaints I made against him are still yet to be dealt with.
I now notice my chest tighten and breathing becomes difficult. I tell my supervisor I can’t stay. He tells me not to go just yet. My mind races and throws up ideas of what to do. None of them actually register in my brain.
I make my way to my station and start packing my bag fumbling as my hands shake vigorously. My stomach heaves wanting to throw up what little contents it has.
I walk or rather pace around trying to do some of the techniques I have learnt to ease the trauma of the anxiety. They are not working.
My supervisor arrives and I tell him I am sick and need to go home. He asks what’s wrong and then watches as my body convulses, shaking uncontrollably and then I burst out crying. Don’t cry I hear him say just go.
I make my way through the store trying to hide my condition as I pass customers and staff. My attempt to clock out fails and I leave the store.
My wife had been pre-warned that I maybe coming home. I walked quickly about a kilometre before I start to calm down just enough to try the breathing routine I had been taught.
Every noise from the traffic and surrounds is deadened by the sound of my chest thumping. I reach the pick up point where I am to meet my wife. I sit on a bench and throw up. I try the breathing techniques again.
My wife arrives and I slump into the car. My wife tells me my face is ashen and sweaty, and that my breathing heavy. She talks me through the breathing once more and slowly it settles. All I want to do is sleep.
Author Steve Boddey