I used to work for a mental health charity. My first location was amazing, but after moving home, I had to move to a store closer. Unfortunately, the manager there and her way of managing the store made my life h***, along with the customers and the lack of volunteers. Here’s just a few of the choicest things said to me during my almost-year working with her. 

After telling her I needed a Wellness Action Plan with regards to how to deal with my mental health at work, she said, “What’s that?” All managers are trained to know what a WAP is. Then, every time I brought it up, she would brush it off as she was “too busy” and say that we’d do it the next time we worked together. 

I usually wear dark, comfy clothing. When I told her I wasn’t feeling mentally great, she said, “Maybe if you wore brighter colours you’d feel better?”

She also later said something similar: “If you smile, you won’t be so depressed.”

She and her favourite volunteer — who didn’t like me very much — made constant comments about my weight and appearance, and it got so bad I would actually fake being sick on days that I worked with her so I could go home early because I simply couldn’t face working with her. 

However, I mostly worked alone. I would still have panic attacks on my way to work, though. Working alone, with a skeleton crew of volunteers, some of whom couldn’t operate the till, I had to start making the choice to close the shop for lunch or not take my break at all. After a week of this, I decided for my mental and physical wellbeing I simply could not go without my break anymore and would close for exactly one hour. People made complaints about me closing the shop; one customer, referring to my short hair and rather butch attire, called me a “ladyboy”. 

Working alone also meant that I couldn’t follow health and safety procedures as much as we were supposed to. Policy clearly stated that a person must stay on the shop floor at all times. However, when donations kept coming in, I would have to make the choice between working in the back and getting them sorted — risking shoplifters and customers’ ire — or staying on the till and letting the piles of bags get to dangerous standards.

For one day only, I made the executive decision to stop donations coming through the door at around three in the afternoon, after I faced a pile of them almost as tall as myself. It got so bad that I would almost start crying with stress every time the door opened, just in case it was someone with more donations. Of course, we all know what customers are like, and several people complained about refusing donations. Of course, charity shops rely on donations, but when it came to a fire and/or trip hazard, I felt I made the right call. 

That’s when things got even worse if you can believe it.

I was summoned, very unexpectedly, to a hearing. Put against me were accusations of closing the shop and refusing donations. I was so panicked that I didn’t make a very good defense for myself, and I spent almost three months in a state of high-strung anxiety where I was afraid I would be fired. I even contemplated suicide. I would like to remind you that this was a mental health charity shop. 

My manager, who had brought this concerns against me to the regional manager, kept acting in a sickly sweet manner, and one friend who volunteered there on a day I wasn’t in told me she overheard the manager’s favourite volunteer say, “I’d run [My Name] over if I could get her job.” 

Nice.

Eventually, the second hearing came around, a friend coming with me for support. This time, I had time to prepare, and I explained my side of things: that I was working in unsafe conditions and my mental and physical health suffered when I was unable to take my break. Legally, we’re allowed twenty minutes of uninterrupted break if we work for more than six hours, and by working through my break, not only was there some sort of legal problem involved, but I also wasn’t getting paid for it. I guess they realised they could get in some trouble if they fired me on such a basis? Either way, I was given a final warning. 

However, despite a Wellness Action Plan being devised for me, my manager and her favourite volunteer — who was then hired as a Sunday manager, and was incredibly incompetent, but that’s another story! — kept making remarks about my brush with being fired.

Eventually, in November, I handed in my resignation.

I still get petty glee over leaving that job just before Christmas; my manager had planned to take holiday from mid-December until mid-January. This left the incompetent manager in charge of the shop over Christmas. “You’ve really left us in a bit of trouble here; it’s not really fair,” he said. All I said was, “Yup,” and I got back to work.

The day I left, I headed straight to the pub with friends and, even with the current health crisis making it hard to find a new job, I really, really, really, don’t regret leaving. I made some great friends from my first location and a great friend with the same mental health problem that I have at the second, and it’s also taught me that, in the future, I will not take any s*** anymore!

I am a teller in a bank. It is the early 2000s, before you could check your accounts from your pocket. There is a college student that comes in every few weeks to withdraw cash from an account shared with his parents. This is a pretty normal setup, and many parents provide a college fund for their kids to dip into. One day, a couple in their fifties come into the bank looking panicked.

Man: “There must be a mistake with our accounts. Our savings account should have $20,000 in it.”

Me: “Okay, let me get your information, and we can see what’s going on.”

I get all the account information and pull up all their info. They are clearly not wealthy but not poor. The man indicates which account he is concerned with.

Me: “So, your current balance is [a few thousand]. Is there a reason you were expecting it to be higher? I can look up your recent transactions.”

The man is not angry but very concerned.

Man: “We never take anything out of that savings account. We’ve been saving for a home renovation.”

As I am pulling up the account history, the name of the couple clicks in my head. They are the parents of the student who makes regular withdrawals. I show the long list of withdrawals to the couple. The man is still polite and clearly getting scared.

Man: “This can’t be right. We didn’t do any of that. That makes no sense. Did you mix up our savings with someone else’s?”

I know I am going to be the one to tell them the truth.

Me: “Is there anyone else that has access to this account?”

Man: “No, it’s just us.”

The woman goes white and says nothing.

Me: “It says here there are cards issued to [Man], [Woman], and [Student].”

Man: “But [Student] wouldn’t do this. We gave him the card just for emergencies, if his car breaks down, or if he needs a new textbook. He wouldn’t…”

The couple was devastated as they went over the withdrawals, adding up to well over ten grand over about a year and a half. They seemed shocked about the money, but the wife said it killed them to learn that their son took advantage of them. No one at the bank ever saw any of them again.

I work in the fitting rooms at a very popular budget fashion chain on weekends. It gets super busy and I’m used to dealing with weird, awkward, or downright rude customers, but this one takes the cake. I have only been working at the store for a few weeks when this happens.

A woman comes up to me with her young son, a baby in a pushchair, and her mom, pushing past customers I’m serving.

Mother: “Where are your toilets?”

We don’t have toilets, so we are trained to tell customers the toilets they are able to use elsewhere in the shopping complex and offer to hold their items while they go.

Me: “Unfortunately, we don’t have any toilets, but there are some at [Other Shop] which they are more than happy for you to use.”

Mother: “No, where are your toilets?”

Me: “As I said, we don’t have any, but—”

Mother: “I know you have a toilet in this building. Where is it? My son is about to s*** himself.”

We do have staff toilets and a disabled toilet for blue badge holders, but due to health and safety, we can’t just allow anyone in. Also, her son doesn’t seem to care at all about needing the bathroom.

Me: “I’m sorry, but—”

Mother: *Shouting* “My son is about to s*** himself! He’s going to s*** everywhere, so you’d better get a f****** manager before he s***s all over your floor!”

I’m super mortified as I’m trying to serve customers with young children. However, I try to remain calm and tannoy for a manager. Nobody shows up.

Mother: “Where the f*** is the manager? My son is going to s*** himself; we don’t have time to go anywhere else!”

She’s been shouting for a good ten minutes, easily double the time it would take for her to go to another bathroom and come back again.

Me: “I’m sorry. I’ve done a tannoy, but nobody—”

Mother: “Get a f****** manager! Now!”

I do another tannoy but nobody comes again; I do a third and one of my managers calls me from the admin area. While I’m on the phone, another customer with her young kids starts to defend me.

Nice Mother: “You know, it’s not the girl’s fault there’s no toilet.”

Mother: “Shut your f****** mouth!”

Nice Mother: “Oh, classy; how dare you talk like that in front of all these kids?!”

Mother: “Just f*** off! My kid is going to s*** himself so I need to use the toilet!”

On the phone, I’m trying to calmly explain the situation to my manager, who now has me on speaker with every other manager in the store. But I’m starting to get worried because the nice woman doesn’t deserve to be attacked. Panicked, I start to shout down the phone.

Me: “I need a manager; this woman wants the bathroom. She’s… I NEED A MANAGER DOWN HERE, NOW!”

Finally, my manager came down and had security escort the woman and her family out of the store, with her child who somehow had managed not to soil himself in the thirty or so minutes they’d been waiting. I hid in the back while trying not to cry from the stress of it all.

A year later, my manager still laughs about my yelling down the phone. I’m still a little bit terrified that the crazy toilet lady will return.

I own my own home. Many of my neighbours rent subsidized housing from a government agency. When repairs are needed, a contractor will come to their house. Unfortunately, these contractors are not known for showing the same respect to tenants in social housing that they would to a paying customer.  

I have been out cycling. I wheel the bike into my house and turn round to close the door behind me. I see a man is walking through my hallway with a T-shirt with logos of a contractor and the housing agency. He didn’t ring the doorbell or knock. He is now three metres into my house.

Me: “Can I help you?”

I march up to him and invade his personal space.

Contractor: “Is this number eight?”

I move even closer to him and he steps back.

Me: “No, this is number seven. What do you want?”

I’m still walking forward; he’s walking backward.

Contractor: “I’m here to fix a shower.”

Me: “No, you aren’t. Get out.”

He nearly trips and falls on the doorstep.

Me: “Look at that number sign on my front door. What does it say? Seven!”

Contractor: “Where is eight?”

Me: “Over there. You don’t just walk into somebody’s house like that.”

He looks confused. We are now in my front yard, three metres from the gate to the sidewalk. He has stopped moving.

Me: “I told you to get off my property, so get moving.”

Contractor: “I knocked! Is this Second Street?”

Me: “No, you didn’t, and this is First Street. Second Street is over there where the sign is.”

He hasn’t moved. I invade his space again and GENTLY push him towards my gate.

Me: “Listen, mate, your attitude stinks. You’ve got the wrong street. You have the wrong house number. I have a big, black seven on my door, which is yellow. You never just walk into somebody’s house like that; you ring the doorbell. If you needed directions, all you had to do was to ask.”

I shot a picture of the license plate on his van so he can be identified when I complain about him.

I work at a small engineering company. We are still very small, only about twenty-five people. We have an IT guy who is responsible for interfacing with clients when their problem is more software-based and installing any modules we program for them. Therefore, he interacts with clients more than most of us engineers. He has a bit of a short temper but is otherwise excellent at his work and great as a coworker.

We also have a very abusive jerk of a client who gives us a lot of revenue and a lot of headaches. He expects each of us to grovel and scrape whenever we interact with him, has sworn at all of us at some point, and is a horrible human being in general.

He’s just found a minor bug on a software we sold him. This is fairly normal and we warranty new software for two to five years because bugs do happen.

My colleague and I, who are the programmers, my manager, and the IT guy are all at his site trying to solve the problem and have already taken a lot of abuse.

Client: “You’re all morons who can’t do anything right. I don’t know why we still bother with your company!”

Manager: “[Client], we are here to fix—”

Client: *Like a chant* “Morons, morons, morons! Come on, sing with me what you are! Morons, morons, morons!”

Three of us there are shocked and don’t know what to do. And then, there is [IT Guy].

IT Guy: “Sure, I’ll sing with you! F*** YOU! F*** YOU! F*** YOU!”

The client’s jaw hits the floor and he starts getting red in the face. But [IT Guy] continues his own chant, raising his voice to the point of yelling in this guy’s – open plan! – office space, and adding dancing middle fingers!

IT Guy: “F*** YOU! F*** YOU! F*** YOU!”

My manager quickly — but not too quickly! — gets us out of there before security comes to get us. [IT Guy] is still yelling as we drag him out the door.

IT Guy: “F*** YOU! F*** YOU! F*** YOU!”

He was fired, of course. In a company as small as ours, we couldn’t afford to let this behavior go unpunished — not with that many witnesses — or our reputation would go down the drain. But he was the office hero for months!

And the client was so hated that [IT Guy] was not fired for cause and was offered a settlement equivalent to two months of his salary, on top of the normal unemployment benefits. My manager also wrote him a kick-a** reference letter and sent his résumé to some connections. He had a good new job in under a month and remained friendly with us.

And we never did business with the abusive client again!