Bullies of all kinds: You are being put on notice

  I have this indelible imprint on my mind from when I was around nine years old. It’s there for many profound reasons. The image of the back of my father staring off into a densely wooded two-acre plot of land that was for sale is as fresh as it has ever been. It was hard for me to imagine at such a young age, but I wanted very badly to look vicariously through his eyes. I got the overwhelming impression that he was seeing something that I couldn’t. With the mystique of a clairvoyant, he was envisioning a future for his family.

  Although it took much sweat and toil and more missed Saturday mornings sitting in front of the television with a bowl of Fruit Loops watching Scooby Doo than I care for, I was a part of the plan coming together. And once the walls were painted and the carpet laid and the fireplace lit in our new home, I started to get it. I started to see.

  In spite of our utopian dream world we had worked endlessly to create, there was one distraction that we had not anticipated.  Being the new kid on the block, this new rural lifestyle was going to take some getting used to, for me and the four brothers who lived just through the woods on the other side of this long u-shaped road. At first they wanted to be my friends and being that they were the only kids around for what seemed like miles, the choice to consort with them only seemed logical. But for reasons that could be analyzed to death, it became clear that I was just meant to be some sick psychological social experiment for them to push to emotional limits. I did mention there were four of them, right? In short: I was a target for bullies. They had already branded me the “rich city kid” even though we were far from rich.

  Still, my parents chose to do the right thing. They immediately chose to have a talk with the kids’ parents. But as the saying goes, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.  This only resulted in more frequent and severe terror and beatings. The next channel was the bus driver. In turn, the punishments for being a snitch increased. My mother grew furious and I was getting to the point where I did not want them to pursue this anymore. Yet, they did.  All the way up the ladder they went until the whole family was paid a visit from the county constable. Still: to no avail.

  The last incident I recall was one school morning walking up to the bus stop and as soon as I arrived being met by the four brothers who wasted no time in taking away my books and throwing them in the mud. Terrified I ran home with also the shame of having to tell my parents: It has happened again.    

  This time, my old man was pissed. He took his shotgun out of the gun case and put it in the gun rack in the window of his truck. He put me in the truck and drove me to the bus stop, yet he stopped about twenty yards away and told me to get out. Right on queue, the boys came walking up, not knowing that my dad was sitting and waiting.  I guess they got the message because they never bothered me again. I would like to think they got scared, but something tells me they just got bored. Nevertheless, to hear my father tell this story, he gets a bit of reverence in his voice when he gets to the shotgun part. Probably because he’s still convinced to this day that if they would have laid a hand on me, he would have killed them.

 

  Growing up, I tried athletics for a minute, but it became quite evident that I was just too small for football and my appetite for rock and roll was just too big. There was not enough room in my life for both, so I chose the path that offered the least resistance for a person of my stature. I was only 5’ 8” and 127 pounds by the time I was eighteen, but a tall stage can make the tiniest person look (and feel) like a giant. It was a very effective escape route, but there remained pockets throughout my life where the bullies would find me. I wasn’t quite the rock star just yet, and because of that I had to frequent the reality of everyday life. And so this eventually developed into a pattern of escapism. I was always running from the tormentors in my life, and I certainly wasn’t doing myself any favors by doing so. I even took up hitch hiking by the time I was twenty.

  Nevertheless with the help of a merciful God with whom I absolutely believe in, I survived. I just had my fortieth birthday and married the most wonderful woman prior to that.  I am in year eight of a good and promising career that pays enough that my family doesn’t have to worry or want for anything. At this point in life, you would think the hill would start sloping down a bit and the breeze would be at my back. After four decades, one would think that the season of the bully has been over for quite some time.

  Much like my dad when I was a child, I have a vision of my own now. As I type this, I’m sitting in my man cave with a nice cozy fire lit listening to jazz records. I am well on my way to where I want to be in life. Yet, there has arisen a very nasty, provoking, irritating, festering, infecting, thorn in my side.

I have a bully in the workplace.

  A workplace bully is different from a playground bully. A physical assault will get you run off in most places. The workplace bully has to employ tactics such as verbal assault, manipulation and sabotage. At the moment, I am not concerned as to why they do it. I am more committed to exposing the problem and dealing with it. The “flight” is no longer an option. I’m ready to fight.

  I know there are many people who deal with these same problems day in and day out. Constantly obsessing over work situations after you get home; The sickening dread on Sunday over going back to work the next day; Sleepless nights; A racing mind; Depression… If these symptoms describe you, I’m willing to bet you can trace them back to a workplace bully, whether it is a coworker or a supervisor. These things are not to be taken for granted. The damage a bully can cause to a person’s health over time can range from PTSD to cancer. I for one am choosing not to sacrifice one more second of my health, happiness, and peace.

  So what about you? Am I describing a situation that you can easily relate to? Are you ready to do something about it? I have a plan. But first, I want to hear from you. Tell me as best as you can about your situation. I have always been told to choose your battles. This is one I have chosen. I have said many times that I can’t promise victory, but I can promise to fight furiously. And if a seventeen-year-old French peasant girl by the name of Joan of Arc could change the course of history, then we have no excuse and no reason to fear. After all, it was her who said: “Act and God will act.”

  

  And she was right.