Guest Post: Bullying in the Workplace by Anonymous

For a few weeks now, ever since the Safe Space team asked me to guest post on their wonderful site, I have been sitting here looking at a blank word document over and over again wondering where to start. I knew what I wanted to write about, but something inside me was holding me back and making me feel physically scared to write words onto the page.

You see, what I really want to talk about is bullying in the workplace. Whereas in reality I am too scared to open up the wounds that I have worked so hard on to heal over time.

This in itself makes me sad. No one should feel scared to write about what they want to write about because of a bully or even have to write a post anonymously. Ever. But sadly this is what has happened.

Sometimes it’s hard to know where to start so I’m starting with a definition.

What is a bully?

Mr Google tells me that a bully is a noun - a person who uses strength or influence to harm or intimidate those who are weaker. Or a verb - using superior strength or influence to intimidate (someone), typically to force them to do something. I define a bully as controlling, a coward and possibly quite insecure about themselves. But one thing I don’t believe can ever be defined is how a bully can make you feel inside.

Like school playground bullying, bullying in the work place can take on many different forms, but is classified as any intentional, repeated behaviour from a colleague, supervisor or manager often with the sole purpose of degrading, humiliating, undermining or embarrassing a work colleague. It is heart-breaking to go through and just as emotional watching someone going through the pain it causes.

When we leave school and venture into the adult way of life and work the last thing anyone should worry about is bullying. I always thought that all of that immaturity was left behind at school and people grow up and grow out of bullying I guess, but unfortunately some people seem to actually enjoy tormenting and causing others pain.

Let’s face it. We are never going to like or get along with every single person we meet through our long and winding road of life. That’s life I guess. That’s why I feel it’s important that if you feel that you are being bullied in the workplace or anywhere it’s always important to recognise the signs and understand the difference. Some signs I have experienced or witnessed myself with regards to work place bullying are:

• Shouting or swearing at another member of staff in front of others
• Disrespectful comments and behaviour including name-calling
• Nit-picking at someone’s work or overloading them with an unmanageable amount of work
• Purposefully withholding information needed to perform a job efficiently
• Exclusion or “the silent treatment” making some one feel unwelcome.

Any of these can lead to you bringing your work home with you. By this I mean maybe coming home physically upset or worried. Feeling ill from stress and/or not being able to sleep due to the worry you have about returning to work the next day. You may even blame yourself for the things that are happening or going on which in my experience brings on a whole other feeling of worthlessness and self-loathing that can be completely damaging to a person’s self-confidence and mental health.

In my experience, bullies rely on these feelings whether it be in the school playground or the workplace, but I do feel that workplace bullies have a slightly different agenda to that of the school playground bully.

The workplace bully does not tend to pick on a victim who they identify as alone or weak, but normally an employee who they consider threatening to themselves within that workplace environment and even their career. I have learnt over the years to take this as a kind of compliment. You are good enough at your job and brilliant enough for someone to actually feel threatened by you. Go you! You’re awesome! But that doesn’t make things right and it certainly does not make things better when you are the one being bullied.

When we have a job, we spend possibly eight hours a day if not more in that working environment and with our work colleagues so it is so important to be happy. Working in an environment where you do not want to be day in and day out is not good for you or your mental health.

It is so important that if you are suffering at the hands of a work place bully or any type of bully for that matter that you take steps to take action.

This can include –
• Telling the bully to stop in a calm and collected manner (which is sometimes way easier said than done)
• Talk to your line manager or if that is not possible another manager or HR manager. Even talking to a friend who you trust may put things straight in your mind and help you deal with the problem.
• Keep a record of bullying incidents including dates, times and what happened. A diary of sorts. You could also write down how that incident made you feel etc. This may actually help you take that step to talking to a manager as you can show them exactly what’s happening rather than worrying that they will dismiss your feelings as over reacting or not relevant.
• If you have someone you trust who you work with you could talk to them and ask them to listen out for incidents or anything that they feel is inappropriate or bullying behaviour and can be a support to you when it’s time to seek help about the matter.

It is important to note that workplace bullying does not happen within every workplace. Often companies have a strict no bullying policy just like schools and look out for their employee’s welfare as much as possible. Unfortunately, sometimes those bullies do just creep in through.

Bullying in the workplace can be a very upsetting and stressful situation and it is always advisable to try and stay as calm as possible. I admit myself that sometimes it is hard to have something constantly fired at you and let it just slide right off without a care in the world, but I have learnt that if that’s what it takes to beat a bully then so be it, but that doesn’t necessarily make it right.

It is not only important to tackle the problem, but also to look after number one which is you. It is not always easy to do this until the situation is maybe under control, but take some time to go for a walk in the fresh air after work, lose yourself in a fictional world and read, listen to music, cuddle loved ones and friends so tightly that you feel all your worry and stress lift from your body and float away or even write a blog post like this that you find therapeutic as you type away. If you feel it necessary, talk to your doctor or start looking for another job. A new challenge. A new start.

You do you. Be you. Enjoy being you. Never let a bully make you feel worthless or like you don’t belong. Always remember a bully is nobody compared to how awesome you are inside and out!

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You're Amazing. Just The Way You Are.

I can’t remember the last time I felt beautiful. I can’t remember the last time someone told me I look beautiful. But I can remember the last time I felt ugly (about two minutes ago standing in front of the bathroom mirror naked). And I can remember the last time someone told me there was something wrong with my body.

In fact when I think back over my life so far, there are very, very few times in my life when I’ve felt beautiful. Even as a teenager I felt ugly and disgusting compared to everyone around me.  I vividly remember having to try and find a dress for our sixth form leaver’s ball… It was a chance for all the girls to dress up in floating gowns and for the boys to don a suit. However the dress searching resulted in me cowering in the corner of my then boyfriend’s bedroom, hiding from the mirror in a flood of tears, crying out that I felt ugly and that I’d look so awful compared to everyone else there. Luckily he was gentlemanly enough to hug me and tell me that I was beautiful but even on the night of the ball itself I felt ashamed and just wanted to cover myself in a huge blanket so no one could see me. I had honestly never felt so ashamed of how I looked in my life.

I guess my body loathing started at secondary school where I imagine it probably starts for most people. I was called ugly; I was teased about my bushy, frizzy hair and thick eyebrows. I felt incredibly self-aware when I was getting changed for P.E that I didn’t have big boobs encased in lacy bras and I certainly didn’t have a thong on (it was cotton knickers all the way for me.) I felt ashamed that I had a thin trail of hair down my stomach because everyone else had such smooth, hairless tummies. I was made to feel bad by ‘friends’ for not wearing make-up. And, one of these ‘friends’ once said, particularly loudly in front of my crush at the time, ‘don’t you think it’s gross when girls have hair on their tummies?’ To which I flamed like a tomato and as soon as I got home that evening shaved it all off. And don’t get me started on that time I realised I was supposed to shave my pubic hair. For some bizarre reason I thought it was natural and was supposed to be there but duhhhhh you have to shave it all off because…you just do?

So, really, I was sort of handed a whole barrage of insults on a plate that my mind quickly digested and started shouting at me every time I looked in the mirror.

‘You’re fat’

‘You’re ugly’

‘You’ll never be beautiful’

‘You’re too hairy for a woman’

‘No one will ever look at your body and think they’ve got lucky’

And for the last ten years I’ve been in a vicious cycle of self-loathing. Even now when I look in the mirror I feel my heart sink and my stomach turn over uncomfortably. Why do I look so vile? Why have I got such large thighs? Why do I have stretch marks and cellulite on my legs and hips? WHY AM I SO HAIRY? Why do my boobs look so bored of life? Why have I got a tummy that sticks out and rolls over when I sit down?

The simple answer is because I do. Because this is the body I have; the body I will always have.

Yes, my unhealthy relationship with food has certainly contributed to the fact I’m bigger than I want to be and weigh more than I want to (but that’s an entirely different topic.) And yes my lack of physical exercise every day definitely contributes to the flab and dullness of my body. But I just wish I could stop hating it.

In the past when I’ve come up with epic plans to lose weight, eat healthier and get back to a more comfortable and ‘happy’ size I’ve always ended up thinking ‘what’s the point?’ I’ll still have the same face, the same hairiness, the same stretch marks, the same everything… it might all just look a little bit smaller that’s all. I still won’t be beautiful.

For a long time my fear and hatred of myself was due to my perception of how other people would see my body, namely men. I felt that no man would like my body because it looks nothing like a woman apparently should look like. It’s not tanned, my boobs don’t touch my chin, it all wobbles, it’s hairy etc. And so many times I tried to drill it into my head that any man who didn’t appreciate my body wasn’t worthy of my time. Beauty is more than just looks…right? But why do I still feel compelled to see my body through other people’s eyes? Why is it when I look at photographs of myself I just see a dumpy potato and criticise everything I hate about it instead of looking at what I like about it? I used to take selfies quite often; it was a thing that made me feel better if I could just get the right filter and lighting. I haven’t dared take a photo of myself in at least half a year…I don’t even like looking at my face in the mirror. Let alone on a camera. All the photos I use for social media are old; some even from 2014…

I keep trying to ask myself WHY I feel such hatred towards my own body. Is it because I genuinely hate it? No, I don’t think so. Is it because society and those around me tell me I should hate it? Yes. My family tell me I’m a bit on the ‘big side’ and my mum loves to make a joke about the size of my thighs or bum. Society tells me I should look a certain way and be a certain size; because that’s what’s attractive and what men want.

I hate that I hate myself. I wish I could look in the mirror and think damnnnn gurl, you looking fine. But I don’t. Instead I say fuck. Look at my double chin, my spots, my horrible hair, my bushy eyebrows, oh god, you can see a fat roll under my jumper etc. etc. I verbally abuse myself on a daily basis. I tell myself I’m not beautiful. I stand in front of the mirror, sigh and say, you so ugly. And then walk away. That’s not normal or healthy.

I don’t have people constantly telling me I’m beautiful or gorgeous or they think I look lovely. And to be honest, even if they did tell me that I’d probably just think they were saying it to make me feel better rather than actually meaning it. See? Vicious. Circle.

I fear so much for the younger generations of women. If I ever have a daughter I will do all I can to make her feel like she’s beautiful every day of her life. That’s she’s perfect just the way she is and she doesn’t need to rely on anyone else to love herself. I wish every woman felt that way. I wish every young girl felt that way. I wish there wasn’t such a divide between what people think is normal and what is actually normal. Women come in all shapes and sizes. Some thin, some fat, some short, some tall and that’s OK. It’s OK to be the way you are. It’s OK to look in the mirror and like what you see. It’s OK to think you’re looking hawwwwt.

It’s OK to love yourself.

I wish I could go back in time and hug that sixteen year old me as she sat crying on her boyfriend’s bedroom floor. I wish I could tell her to wear whatever damn dress made her feel beautiful and screw what anyone else thought. I wish I could go back and speak to thirteen year old me and tell her that she doesn’t need to shave anything off and that cotton knickers kick ass and, most importantly, that real friends aren’t critical of your body. I wish I could go back to all the nights that I’ve cried in front of the mirror and just give myself a big hug.

I hope as I grow older I can learn to love my body…I want to look in the mirror one day and think ‘you are so beautiful.’

And I want that for every woman. I want every woman to look in the mirror every single day and realise just how gorgeous they are. We are all beautiful. Whatever our shape, whatever our size, whatever our height, our skin colour, our ethnicity, our religion, our age: We. Are. Beautiful. 

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Growing Up With Big Boobs

For most of my life I’ve had big boobs. In my experience that phrase strikes envy into the hearts of women far and wide. Having a fuller bust is something that is praised and celebrated in our society and means that you’re one step closer to that “perfect body” that we see splattered across television screens, magazines and posters everywhere.

But in my experience having big boobs has been far from ideal.

I was an early developer. My boobs appeared literally over night when I was ten years old and I hated them with a passion. I hated the feeling of having to wear a bra, I hated that I still had to get undressed for PE lessons in front of the boys in my class, and I hated how these two bumps on my chest suddenly made me stand out amongst my peers.

One of my earliest negative experiences with my boobs is from one lunch time, back when I was in junior school. My “friends” wouldn’t talk to me and had spent our entire lunch break whispering behind my back. I was so upset and didn’t know what I’d done wrong. I ran to the girls toilets in floods of tears only for a girl I barely knew from the year below me to ask if it was true that I stuffed my bra to get boys to notice me? Because that was the rumour that a girl I considered a friend had started about me that lunch time.

I remember sitting in the bath that night wishing as hard as I could that these things would go away so that I could have my friends back, so people would stop talking about them, so I could be a kid again. I was so upset and disgusted by my body that I faked sick for the rest of the week so I wouldn’t have to go into school.

The first time I remember being street harassed was when I was walking down the road to my friend’s house. I must have been around twelve years old. It was summer, I had on a tank top, and I was making the short walk over to the next street from my house when a group of middle-aged men in a work van slowed down and shouted “Show us your tits, love! Go on! Get them out!” I was twelve years old and I was terrified. I crossed my arms over my chest and ran the rest of the way to my friend’s house with them following along honking the van horn and laughing. Sadly, this would be the first of many incidents throughout my life where men would feel that it was okay to comment on my boobs in public.  

Things only got worse when I went to secondary school. By then I was a thirteen year old girl with a C cup chest - mix that in with a school full of horny teenage boys and well, let’s just say that it was like a lamb walking into a field full of lions.

New rumours flew around that I was a slut and that I’d let boys touch my chest. Boys would reach out and try and grope at them in school corridors. I got asked out a lot by older boys who thought that me having big boobs automatically meant that I was up for sex, and that because we were going out that they had a right to it.

Occasionally, if one of the PE teachers was off sick, the girls and boys would have to do PE together. One time I remember a particularly excruciating hour of trampolining - let me tell you that was a show and a half for the boys in my year group and something that makes me wince even when I think back on it today.

For the longest time I hated my boobs. They didn’t feel like mine but something that belonged to other people and something people could judge me on. It felt like everybody had something to say about my body and my sexuality in relation to my chest size. As a shy, awkward, teenager, I had far more questions asked about my boobs than I was comfortable with and experienced things like people asking if they’re real, boys only being interested in one thing, and street harassment on a daily basis.

I finished school as a D cup and now as an F cup still experience these things from time to time. It certainly helps that I’m not in a testosterone filled high school environment anymore. As an adult woman my problems now usually involve back pain and trying to find a store that carries my bra size.

Having a large chest can be such a coveted thing for women, but for me personally it’s something that I’ve always struggled with. I’d love to be able to say to you that this is all a thing of the past and that I now love my boobs but although I’ve gotten better I’m still not there yet, but I’m working on it.

Having big boobs can be far from ideal. They can draw unwanted attention, cause physical problems from the weight and are often used as a comical talking point. I hope I’ve shed some light on that by sharing my experiences of growing up with big boobs today.

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What Makes Me, Me - Joy

When I started to consider what makes me, me, I realised something. Who I am is personal; it doesn’t rely on other people to tell me who I am. Who I am isn’t determined by what others see when they look at me. If you spend more than five minutes with me, you will possibly be one of those people who tells me I’m quiet, as if it’s a character trait I’ve not noticed before. If you see me on a particularly tough day, you might think I’m overly sensitive or introspective. You could call me all sorts of things: an introvert, a creative, a loner, a listener. You might look at the diagnoses attributed to me and call me a service user, a patient, unwell. But still, that isn’t me.

I have spent more than three quarters of my life fighting against who I am. I thought that If I could deny who I was and what I experienced growing up, people were more likely to see me in a positive light. If I could pretend I wasn’t me and hide away from the world, maybe people wouldn’t uncover the part of me that I’m so ashamed of. If I could just be an extrovert, then I would be like everyone else and they would like me. But all that fighting and striving left me with was isolation, depression and even more shame.

My childhood saw years of sexual abuse and school bullying. My innate shyness grew into a refusal to speak in order to protect a little of myself. In doing so, I stopped creating a “me.” To have likes and dislikes, hopes and fears, would be to allow me to develop and grow. Having an opinion would mean that people could turn against me in disagreement. Staying silently absent, I thought, would mean abusers wouldn’t notice me. However, in doing so, I became a 20-something adult without the ability to hold a conversation and without a self that I was willing to acknowledge, let alone let other people see.

If you had told me, two years ago, that I would be writing to unknown people about what makes me, me, I wouldn’t have believed you. But things change. I still feel a lot of shame, I still want to hide more often than I want to be around people, and using my voice takes a day’s energy. But declaring who I am and deciding who I wish to be is a part of reclaiming my life. Ernest Hemingway once said: “The world breaks everyone and afterwards many are strong at the broken places.” That is where I now choose to stand. I am not what has happened to me. I’m not a victim, a survivor or a sufferer. I’m me, not because of what happened to me, but in spite of what has happened to me. Of course, life changes us, as Hemingway says, but it can make us better and stronger.

What remains at the core of me is tenacity. I am me because I refuse to give up. I screw up, I frequently question what I’m doing or what I’m aiming for, but I keep going. I am me because I am the only person in this world with my history and my future. No-one else is me. I may be quiet, I may be sensitive and introspective, but that is how I present, not who I am. I am me because my future is what I choose to make it. I am me because I am the author of my own life. I may not be able to control what happens to me, but I can choose how my story ends. 

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What Makes Me, Me - Jo

When Jess first asked us to write this introductory post, my mind went blank. If I had to write about Who Am I, it would have been much easier. I could talk about how I’m devoted to my friends and family; how I don’t take myself too seriously and will happily make a fool of myself for a laugh; how I am the kind of person who finds the most ridiculous, unfunny jokes absolutely hilarious; how I’m an avid reader of YA and fantasy; how I’m a writer, a dreamer, an optimist who is always full of hope. But that’s all kind of surface stuff, and doesn’t go very deep. What Makes Me, Me, though - that digs a whole lot deeper.

If you were to look at me, you would see a young redhead, probably in her late teens, who is very slim. You would probably make some unconscious judgements on me based on my slim frame. Like others, you might think I’m anorexic, or that I’m obsessed with being skinny and on some ridiculous diet.

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