Permission to repost?
My last job was awful. Probably no worse than many of the others on here, but I was doing it and you wasn't, so I'm allowed to think it was the horribilest job ever.

What was meant to be a general janitorial sorta role slowly became, in the three years I was there, a security job. I got profoundly weary of having to deal with drunks, thieves, junkies, the insane and general cock-wits.

One day, last August, a very well known local purse thief/junkie was in the building trying to take whatever he could to finance the next shot of smack into his single remaining uncollapsed vein.

I politely asked him to leave, mentioning that if he doesn't I'm under instruction to call the police.

Judging from his reaction, he must've miss heard me, and thought I said "Leave now, you filthy, unwashed, retarted, inbred, gap-toothed cretin." Which would have been quite a fair comment, but I was the picture of proffesional politeness. He stood up and made his way out of the building making threats upon my life. This wasn't greatly unusual from him and his kind, but two things troubled me.
1.He seemed considerably more coherant and aware then usual.
2.He had recently got out of jail for attempting to act on such a threat.

This was the final nail in the workplace coffin that had been slowly built over the last three years.

F*** him, F*** the job. I was leaving, right away.

Not having another job to go to, in a town where that one is considered good, (£850 a month take home, 8am-7pm, 5 days a week)I had to think fast. Straight up to the new managers office, explianed (with a little creativity) that my continued existance was in peril and I was going home indefinately, whilst I decide what I'm going to do.

Being a local council job, I knew they would be too scared to terminate my contract while I was suffering the trauma of such an experience.

(This was a place where someone had previously taken a years paid sick leave for a sore wrist, in which time they managed to purchase and set up a takeaway resturant.)

I cemented the credibility of my confused state by a trip to the doctors.

Everyone knows the symptoms of extreme stress, however since leaving the place, I had been as calm and peaceful as a nun's conscience.

The morning of the doctors visit arrived. In preperation:

I hadn't shaved for a week.
(Letting personal standards slip, one giveaway sign of a troubled person.)

No shower for three days.
(Unpleasant, but one must make sacrifices for one's art)

I drunk two very large whiskys.
(It quickens the heart rate, another sign, with the added benefit of smelling like someone who has started to develop "a problem")

I wore my heaviest, thickest clothing and jogged all the way there whilst chain smoking.
(The combined effect creating an unhealthy sheen of sweat and blood pressure that can be measured tectonically.)

A few minutes after arrival, I was sat in front of doc, explaining how "It's all gone wrong" and "I can no longer see a light at the end of the tunnel" Having had four years of mental health care work experience, Treating every kind of upstairs problem you could ever encounter, my performance made the DeNiro/Pacino 'Heat' coffee house scene look like church hall Am Dram.

Him: "Have you been sleeping poorly?"
Me:"Yes, very bad."
(Mostly because I've been staying up late on the playstation and watching horror films.)

Him: "...Your personal relationships?"
Me: "She has expressed dissatisfaction about our situation"
(She did remind me I had forgotten to clean the kitchen floor again.)

Him: "Affecting the libido?"
Me: "I don't have one right now."
(Actually, doc, I punched one out over 'Juggs' magazine whilst having a morning whisky earlier. Flippin' great it was too.)

Him: "Have you been drinking more than usual"
Me: (Whilst eyeing the surgical alcohols inquisitively) "...Yes." (Exhaling deeply for aromatic effect.

Worked a treat. He showed genuine concern, which did make me feel guilty, but this was a preventative measure, as I'm very confident this was a probable path to my life if I had stayed at the job.

Perscription for Prozac and a reacurring sick note if needed.

Jumped on the first bus to work, showed them my impressively poor health check results and left, not contacting them again until my lack of updates resulted in them saying "Due to lack of further contact, as of "dateX" we are afraid to inform you your contract of employment with us will be terminated".

The last couple of paychecks from them just managed to keep me going until I started my new, still crap but infinately nicer, job.
( sir_spicious2000 Crap I've watched: www.filmplop.blogspot.com/, Sun 25 May 2008, 1:02, 1 reply)

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Way to rip off the NHS, stereotype depression and make it even harder to people with real depression to get treatment (because doctors have to try and distinguish between genuine cases and the workshy). Nice.
(Medibot, Wed 28 May 2008, 13:05, closed)