I was fired twice in less than two months; both times, while not specifically addressed, I felt my temper and lack of ability to control it had a lot to do with both incidences. I began to think about the various positions I held over the years. Some were intense, stressful jobs with multiple deadlines. One was with an international, privately held company. Some I gave notice and went on to something better. I’d spent 13 years with one company but had never been on any other job for more than 3 years. I also realized, I’d been “laid off” from several. I began to question all of them. What had my behavior been like? Had there been problems with my temper and my unabashed vocalization on other jobs? The numbers seemed to mount as I began counting the times I’d lost my temper on the job and made no bones about voicing my opinion to those in a position to hire or fire.
I remembered what I thought was a discussion when a company official wondered out loud why they had difficulty recruiting minorities. I told him in no uncertain terms that the company was asking minorities to go to areas of the country where bias, bigotry and prejudice were considered acceptable practice. I had no qualms about asking if they, the higher-ups would consider taking their families into areas where their loved ones would be subjected to ridicule, scorn and hateful practices. I was laid off that job about a month later.
I thought about one company that increased their prices overnight without the 30-day notice that was obligatory according to the client contracts. I complained about it to the department manager and when I didn’t receive what I considered a satisfactory answer, I went back into his office on payday and told him to keep my check to cover the difference between old and new rates for a period of 30 days until my clients had the opportunity to accept or reject the rate increase and their contract. There was a union on that job and while I wasn’t let go for my actions, my upward mobility seemed to cease.
Putting actual numbers to them, the reality of my lay-offs began to take shape and form a pattern. My outbursts all occurred during particularly stressful times either on the job or personally. I tried to remember and analyze my feelings during those periods. My arguments always entailed my perceived injustice, real or otherwise, on the part of my employer. Whether it was ill treatment of co-workers, legal but otherwise unethical practices of the employer toward clients or potential customers – anything I saw as an injustice, I brought to the attention of my bosses and I made no distinction in the hierarchy of the corporate world.
I also remembered reading about that type of behavior as inherent with PTSD. An injustice was done to me as a child and the situation was out of my control completely. I tried to find the information again. I retraced my searches but couldn’t find the article I was remembering. Had I imagined it? Hell, if I remembered information, I didn’t trust my memory! Perhaps it was in my PTSD workbook, but checking every bookcase in my apartment (and I have several), I couldn’t find the book anywhere, couldn’t remember the last time I read from it or where I laid it afterward. I had a whole folder on coping skills and couldn’t find it either. At 2:00 in the morning, I found myself obsessing about the workbook and the folder. Suddenly, I did remember hiding all of it when my son visited from Los Angeles; I’d been embarrassed and ashamed and didn’t want him to know his mother had been in therapy. I didn’t want my son to think his mother was crazy. But where did I hide that damned book? I needed it.
I’d torn the house apart but after an hour of frantic search, I did find my workbook but then couldn’t remember why I was looking for it. I sat on the floor and began to read notes tucked inside from the last time I’d looked at the book. The last exercise I’d completed was only the second chapter: “Before Doing The Work: Safety, Security and Intention.” Reading the notes, I recognized the same behavior. I’d never gotten beyond the safety stage. Instead I isolated myself. I’d quit all my previous activities and stayed inside. I went out one day each week to take care of my mother and one evening each week to complete a commitment I’d made a few months earlier. Otherwise, my one-bedroom apartment was my world; the television, blaring from the living room, merely gave me the illusion of normal conversation.
