My re-entry into the world of severe clinical depression, which before had been manageable as mere clinical depression, started in 2017 at the hands of the bullies and abusers of the British Red Cross. My loyal reader will have read all this self-pitying shit for years and may have thought, ‘Why the actual fuck does he keep going on about it?’ The answer is because I can and because I have run out of therapy options, unless I sell the house and go to live in a cardboard box to pay for it. The British Red Cross, I absolutely hate you, with a passion I normally reserve for paedophiles, Nigel Farage, homophobes, Al ‘You Can Call Me Boris’ Johnson, racists and Margaret Hilda Fucking Thatcher. CEO Mike Adamson, I still have your pathetic, snivelling, in confidence letter you sent me in 2018, saying the bullying and abuse never happened. You are now in the above list. You are in my book of liars.
I was happy at the British Red Cross until the good managers left and were replaced by bad ones. Not just bad ones, but wrong ‘uns. Even the British Red Cross occupational health officer described me as being ’emotionally weak’. The manager above my line manager wanted me to attend ‘anger management’ courses, presumably on behalf of angry the shitbag managers who made my life hell. Not only that, they sent me to work alone out of a broom cupboard in Easton in a bid, I was convinced, to get rid of me. And CEO Adamson has never even acknowledged the subsequent letters I sent him. He’s on the side of the bullies and abusers.
I never had this trouble at other employers. Granted, I was an ongoing mental basket case but thanks to friends, colleagues and great managers, especially in the latter years of my civil service life, I got by without any real problems. Even when I joined the British Red Cross, I made a point of telling them about my clinical depression and various anxieties, adding that provided I was fairly and properly managed I would on balance be a major asset to them and so I was until names and faces started to change.
It’s been over four years since I last worked for them, but the mental health issues haven’t gone away. They have never apologised to me for what they did because, frankly, they don’t give a shit. Certainly, Adamson who trousers not far short of £200,000 per annum, could not care less, otherwise he might at least have got an underling to reply on his behalf, even if only telling me to fuck off. Instead, he puts my letters in the bin. Bastard. I wonder if he has ruined my life?
The British Red Cross stole my confidence, any belief I had in my ability to do anything and tore away my self-esteem. Instead, I bump along at rock bottom, feeling unemployable and full of self-loathing. Even three years working for the brain injury charity, Headway, where I’d still be today if they hadn’t suddenly instructed me to wipe people’s bums and empty their catheters (service users, not managers), hasn’t restored my faith in my ability to do anything. Devoid of qualifications, lacking experience in so many areas and being so fucking old, I feel I have so much to give but no one who wants to take it.
Hate is a very strong word, but it is how I feel about Mike Adamson and his British Red Cross. They made me very ill and I still feel ill today, much more ill than I have been in many years. And their inability to even acknowledge their bullying and abusive behaviour, never mind apologise, haunts my nights.
Sue me if you want, Adamson. But fuck you. And fuck your charity. I only wish there was a hell for you to go to.
Anyway, don’t take my word for it. Just look at the company he keeps.
Finally, here’s why you should never donate to the Red Cross. At the last count, Adamson was one of eight fat cat managers earning over £100,000 per annum at the British version. There must be large numbers earning not much shy of that. Support a local charity instead.
