On safari

Years ago, I took a courier flight to Nairobi (cheap, you understand) and booked myself upon a mini-safari (even cheaper). Trundling towards Lake Nakuru in a small camper van, we stumbled upon a small herd of giraffe. In their wake limped a baby giraffe with a broken leg.

"But what's going to happen to that one?" I asked our guide, in some distress.
He simply shook his head before revving up the engine..

I do still sometimes think of that little creature, desperately trying to keep up with the others.
Because I don't think that particular story ended well.

Outside work, I have befriended a woman who is struggling to stay away from the particular poison which is slowly destroying her life. I meet her in a McDonalds for a cup of tea, and as she sits opposite me - painfully thin, shaking, unable to walk properly - she reminds me of nothing so much as that baby giraffe. Ironically, she is even wearing animal print leggings.

Her vulnerability and desperation are not hidden by her social smile, or her protestations that today she is feeling "fine". So I have to fight hard not to stand in judgement of those who seem to be hindering her recovery - the man who is having sex with her, the ex-husband who is humiliating her in front of her children, the large group of predators who are circling a few yards away, waiting to pounce the first moment she stumbles.

There are predators in my workplace too - I call them The Jackals. The group of bullies whose spiteful and orchestrated conduct has irrevocably altered my working life. Despite everything that has happened at work; these people have never seen me cry, never provoked me to open retaliation, never heard me raise my voice. They do not know that their presence can sometimes trigger symptoms of chronic anxiety. They do not know that six months ago, I was being helped into a chair by paramedics after I had suffered my first (and please God, last) panic attack. They do not know that in a drawer at home, I keep the pills my GP prescribed to calm me down after I had spent half an hour sobbing uncontrollably in his office (I keep them as insurance in case things ever get really bad again).

The Decent People have their own theories on why I became the target of bullies.

"It's because you are so organised"
"It's because you are so good at your job"
"It's because you always look so well groomed"
"It's because you are so professional".

It's very kind of them to say such things, but for my own part, I haven't got a clue....

I don't think I was a limping baby giraffe. But neither was I a snarling jackal.

Maybe I was too self-contained? Too independent?
Too much A Cat Who Walked By Himself....?

I could go crazy trying to rationalise it.
So I try not to.
But I'm still not going to start limping in front of The Jackals any time soon.