Telling It Like It Is

I am sitting in a pleasant room, opposite an immaculately groomed middle aged woman I have never met before. She is wearing very bright colours which I find immensely cheering. Behind her head, I can see trains passing by on a raised track and am momentarily distracted by thoughts of how effective her double-glazing seems to be. Then I turn my attention back to the matter in hand...

The woman is a qualified psychotherapist whom I have chosen on the following basis:

1. My GP thought she had the right background and experience for my particular needs
2. She charges under £50 a session (one therapist I checked out charged £91 an hour ?!?)
3. Her practice is about 3 miles from where I live - but crucially in another Borough

Frustrated though I have been by Occupational Health Doctor's repeated inference that I have a screw loose; I have been thinking for some time that a talking therapy might be of some benefit to me (it's either that, or Husband continues to provide a listening, but probably by now rather weary, ear). But now the moment of the first appointment has arrived, I realise I am still feeling somewhat ambivalent about the whole process.

With Therapist's discreet encouragement, I talk through the events of the past year; describing the bullying, my complaint, the organisation's huge efforts to discredit me, and the roles other people elected to play in the proceedings. I almost forget to tell her that in the middle of all this my complaint was upheld. Because that became a very hollow victory...

Once I have told the whole story, Therapist asks me how I am feeling.

"Angry," I say. "Disengaged, disillusioned, and bitter". I tell her that I have totally changed - from a highly performing, highly motivated Council officer, to someone who does the bare minimum at work, and that I do this with absolutely no enthusiasm. That I am aghast that New Boss - who promised me at our first meeting he was going to tackle bullying in our department - did nothing to challenge Spiteful Manager's malevolent behaviour (for which I had provided evidence). And that I only speak to Line Manager about work matters; and that I do not speak to Spiteful Manager at all.

I tell her that outside work I am a happy, confident, fulfilled person; but that as soon as I walk into the office I feel tense and fearful. I tell her that I constantly feel I have to "hide" my real personality otherwise I will once again become a target. And I tell her that because my complaint was upheld, the organisation thinks it is a simple matter for me to move on and forget about the whole thing. But I can't.

She looks at the clock and I know that my allotted 50 minutes are coming to an end. And suddenly and unexpectedly, I hear myself saying that the thing I really can't get over is the role Remora played in the whole scenario (ah! Remora! Thereby hangs a tale...).

I have already alluded to Remora several times during the preceding discussion, so much so that Therapist is already referring to her as Your Woman Colleague. At this point, Therapist asks me what her name is. And I casually tell her that I never utter this person's name. I refer to her in my own mind as "Mattie" (as in Meddlesome Mattie, from the children's poem) or "Remora" (as in parasitic sucker fish that attaches itself to a shark). But I do not say her actual name out loud. Ever.

And then I tell Therapist that if I was to hear that something very VERY bad had happened to Remora - preferably something....oh, um, fatal - I wouldn't feel in the slightest bit sad. That in fact I would feel justice had been served. And that my feelings for this interfering, manipulative, scheming workplace sociopath can be summed up in one word. Hatred.

There is a short silence. As you might imagine, this truth is not something I would comfortably admit to Husband, or my sponsees, or the priest; so I sneak a quick look at Therapist to see if she is appalled by my vengeful statement and has already categorised me as one of the most spiritually sick people she has ever sat opposite.

But of course she isn't appalled ! She is a psychotherapist. I can tell her about absolutely everything going on inside my head, and she will not judge me. That's what I am paying for.

"I think," I say slowly, as the clock ticks its way towards handing-over-cash time, "I think that maybe I need to talk some more about Remora? So yes please - I would like to come back next week after all...."