Pulling the ladder up

It’s amazing to think I was bullied.
For three months after leaving a job back in the late '90s I didn’t have the confidence to apply for a job, let alone pick up the phone and ‘pitch’ a freelance feature.
So I ended up back where I started in a junior role on the evening paper that trained me. But I didn’t care, it gave me the ‘grounding’ I needed to rebuild my confidence and eight years on, I’ve not looked back.
I'm not saying I've found wonderful success since then professionally but I'm doing okay - and if anything at work gets me down, I think back to that time and thank my lucky stars it'll never be that bad again.
My experience of bullying really did change my life. Up until that point I was one of the hordes of senior journalists who ‘judged’ people on how they fared at their job – as if their ability to persuade a grieving relative to speak or turn round a front page story right on deadline defined their whole being. Mention someone’s name and the same question always came up in hushed tones: “Are they a good operator?”
Depending on the answer, they could be admired or reviled, invited to the pub or left alone to wonder why they weren’t in the gang.
News editors who were 'hard bastards' were to be looked up to, weren't they? So-called 'victims' of bullying must've brought it on themselves.
Up until that point it’s also fair to say I’d lived to work. But the mental mauling I received in that particular newsroom coupled with meeting my partner at around the same time, changed me beyond recognition – learning to work to live.
It was the first time I hated a job. I’d wake with a knot in my stomach and a bigger one in my throat. I comfort ate for England – a different takeaway every night in my flat miles from home and I wept with despair and shame that I could have been reduced to such a state. I ended up in front of a GP who told me I was depressed – ‘reactive depression’ he called it, due to stress.
I kept that quiet for years. Because of the nature of the abuse I suffered, with my boss claiming I was ‘mentally unstable’, I didn’t think admitting I did actually become ill, would do me any favours - no smoke without fire and all that.
But now I’m strong enough to say ‘bollocks to that’, there’s no wonder I ended up at the doctor’s when I think about the daily tirade I was battling against, all the time trying to function in a new job in a new town, separated from friends and family.
Years later I even found the courage to write about my experiences in a women’s weekly. I felt liberated– not only because I’d ‘cracked’ that market but also because I happened to know my tormentor read that very mag as part of her new job. It also gave my ex-colleagues, who’d also suffered in silence a bloody good laugh.
Today I’m thinking about that time again. I’ve just found a photocopy of a statement I supplied to personnel after leaving– so I’m going to reproduce it here.
I should’ve know something was wrong. In my first two weeks in that office, six people left.
It also became increasingly galling that every time I had a good idea, this woman would claim it as hers and every time she f*cked up, she’d say that was me. I just couldn’t win.
I'll never forget the words of one of my colleagues - he told me she was 'pulling the ladder up' and that as a successful woman she chose to stop any other reaching her giddy heights of achievement. I would love to say I disagreed with him - but he was right.
So right in fact that the same phrase has popped into my head after encountering a couple of other women since. There was the editor who told me, two weeks into a trial period, if I didn't get a 'splash' out of a district office that afternoon, there'd be 'blood on the carpet' and it 'wouldn't be hers' (thankfully I walked away from that opportunity) and there was the PR woman whom I worked with briefly. I gave her a load of contacts and she gave me nothing but grief.
The story of this first bully did not stop with this statement. I also ended up giving evidence in defence of an ex colleague who stuck up for me, wrongly accused of theft.He was acquitted and the judge called me an ‘exemplary witness’. The trial was surreal. My colleague’s barrister told the jury the newsroom was like ‘open warfare’. He was right of course.
All names have been changed.

Re: Conduct of Alison Mildman

Following our telephone conversation, I wish to make the following statement.

From the moment I arrived at the Ellesbury Gazette, I was amazed at the conduct of Ms Mildman. She was deeply offensive to myself and other members of staff on a daily basis.
Alison refused to give me any responsibility whatsoever. Having been ‘in charge’ of a team of 12 reporters on another title, I was more than capable of coping with the demands of this paper.
Two days after joining Alison Mildman told me: “I don’t know who you think you are but everything you’ve ever done or learned before you came here was sh*t”. After that she called me either a ‘tart’ or a ‘talentless bitch’ every day. On top of this she would swear at me and tell me to ‘f*ck off’.
Whenever I sat in her chair to access the newsdesk computer, she’d call me a ‘power crazed bitch’. Once I was amazed to see her take a bottle of gin from her bag to take a sip. When I asked her what she was doing, she replied: “What the f*ck has it got to do with you?’
Two weeks into my new job. My brother was in a serious road accident, which left him unable to walk. The editor allowed me a week off on compassionate grounds to be with him. On my return, I discovered Ms Mildman had told my colleagues I was suffering ‘mental problems’. The day I got back, she said: “I can’t give you anything to do, you might have a nervous breakdown, anyway I don’t know if I can trust you, you might p*ss off in six months.”
More than once she told me: “Just remember, I’m the (title omitted!) I could ‘have’ any one of you if I wanted, I only tell the editor what he needs to know.”
Ms Mildman often claimed credit for my work, she would pretend she had to rewrite it and tell me it was ‘sh*t’.
Once she told the editor she had to stay in the office until 12.45am to ‘rewrite Shirley’s sh*t’ because all I’d ‘bothered’ to do was to prepare some notes. I was reprimanded by the editor despite protesting that these were her specific instructions and I myself had been in the office until gone 10pm.
It was the personal abuse that was hardest to take. Repeated references to an alleged ‘mental breakdown’ were deeply hurtful. She also told me I had a ‘face like a slapped arse’ (no surprise there then - 2005 note!) and that working with me was like working with a ‘schizophrenic.’ She told me my colleagues were ‘sick of me’ and that ‘my miserable face was ruining office morale.”
She made comments about my dress, my hair and my make up saying I looked as if I didn't wash.
Concerned colleagues would ask me if I was okay as she had told them I was suffering from ‘mental problems.’
She also made comments about my personal life. Referring to the fact that I’d spend time with my boyfriend, she told me: “If you were anywhere near a professional, you’d be coming up with stuff for conference, not sh*gging all weekend.”
She told me it was my job to make reporters cry. She would often ‘tear a strip’ off junior members of staff and ask me to join in. When I offered them words of support as I saw fit she told me I ‘wasn’t the journalist she’d been told I was.’ When I stuck up for reporters in meetings with the editor, I was asked if I was ‘their agent or something.’
She’d say ‘I’m working in a f*cking kindergarten, I’m surrounded by f*cking kids. If you don’t like it, f*ck off and work in Boots.”
I gave my notice in after she told me: “Give your f*cking notice in, I’ll give you a sh*t reference.”
There was no way I could continue. I have been advised I could launch proceedings for constructive dismissal but as a young professional in a highly-competitive industry, there is no way I can afford the potential damage to my reputation.