Thursday, January 22, 2015

Where Mikey has a wag of the chin

Late last year I decided to press the go button on seeking redress for the hurts inflicted by oldwork. Newwork, who had to step up and launch proceedings after I crossed the Rubicon, couldn't have been more supportive after I did so.

Discovering hard evidence of active monstrosity is difficult, however, and this realisation landed on me of late. This realisation, and a confirming phone call, led to dark days of aching body and IBS-afflicted torment as I feared the oldwork people would win.

But, recently, my lovely boss+ took me for a walk of the building. We settled into chairs and she offered me yet more support, an actual person assigned to help me in case my anxiety forces me to go again or onto reduced hours as I dealt with the physical and mental pain that had arced up as a result of the challenge. 

In offering that help she also gave me the chance to vent about my feelings. The hurt I felt for having to go and the pain I endured in my leaving. And that my heart ached for those I left behind and those I'd helped in my dozen years doing one of government's toughest gigs. 

I could see her wanting to end my vent, those moments of her paused in a ready-state, mouth half-open to say something when a gap in the verbal traffic appeared, but I saw those signs and forded on. I needed to say my piece. To say what I had done was amazing and what they'd done to what I did was fucked in my going. That those in management where I worked did not believe in what they do and that they should no longer be there.

And she listened. She listened. Then she offered me yet more support in the form of the support person. Later that same day I got a call from that person and I meet with her in a couple of weeks. 

It hurt to fight back but I am glad I did. My people were wronged and they need redress. 

Wellness for the win.

Wednesday, January 07, 2015

Late-night chicken comparing

We have chickens, from assorted breeds, who in chicken terms are nearing puberty. Soon we find out who the boys are and then they go live on a nice farm in the country, like what happened to my cat and to unwanted male offspring in a cult-like situation. We get to keep the girls.

Chicken sexing, or determining the sex of a chicken, is difficult. It's based on this toe this or comb that or feathers appearing where there were no feathers before.

We just compared them, at night by torchlight, under the star-filled sky to see if these signs of sexing were in evidence. I felt like a soothsayer.

But when I went to compare I forgot to wear sandals for when I went into their "zone", the fenced-off section of back yard where they dwell. I likely now have chicken crap on my feet (though I did check and can't see any).

If I do then it was worth it for the experience of late-night chicken comparing!

Happy New Year.