File: From Bullying to Breakdown – The Email That Pushed Me Over the Edge

My illness didn’t start the day I received that email. That day was simply the final blow. The real cause lies deeper—years of subtle humiliation, systematic exclusion, and quiet psychological pressure within the team I worked in. What should have been a place of collaboration became a minefield—an environment of fear, tension, and isolation.

The Pressure to Keep Going

I kept going. Day after day. Not because I was okay, but because I felt I had no choice. I had been suspended by the RVA, which forced me to accept a job I had previously refused. On top of that, I had an outstanding repayment. Walking away didn’t feel like an option—I couldn’t afford it.

Caught between financial pressure and emotional exhaustion, I stayed in a place that was slowly draining me. It wasn’t a choice made in freedom. It was survival, in a space where my well-being no longer mattered.

The Email

Then the email arrived. On paper, it might have looked harmless. No threats, no harsh words. But what can’t be seen on a screen is what it does to someone already standing on the edge. For me, it was the final push. Not because of what it said, but because of what it took from me—the last bit of trust, dignity, and strength. My body and mind gave in. They said, “Enough. No more.”

This story isn’t written out of bitterness. It’s my attempt to lay things bare—for myself, for anyone who wants to understand, and for those who need to know: people don’t just get sick. Especially not when it’s the soul that breaks down.

Leave as an Escape Route

If you look at my calendar, you’ll notice an unusual amount of scattered leave days. These weren’t vacations. They weren’t moments of rest or luxury. They were my escape. The only way I could breathe, if only for a short while, away from the constant psychological pressure and emotional wear of the workplace.

Every workday felt like a fight—against myself, against the tension, against a team where I no longer felt safe. My body signaled stress, sleep disappeared, and the workplace became a source of fear instead of stability. Leave wasn’t indulgence—it was a survival tactic.

Silence as a Shield

Some say I never spoke in the team. That’s true. But my silence wasn’t indifference—it was self-protection. In a place where everything I said could be twisted or turned against me, I chose silence. Not because it was easy, but because it was the only way to avoid more pain. My silence says more than words ever could. It reveals the fear that ruled the culture around me. Even simple conversation felt unsafe.

The Email That Broke Me – A Turning Point

The email I received on July 1st, 2013 didn’t just shake me—it shattered my world. It marked the beginning of a psychological spiral that I couldn’t escape. That message claimed there had been "intense conversations," even though I had always made it clear that I hadn’t been involved in anything of the sort. From that moment, I began to question my own reality. Paranoid thoughts crept in. I became convinced that people in my team were plotting against me, even using the cleaning lady to file false complaints.

I asked—again and again—to be transferred to another team. Not because I didn’t want to work, but because I couldn’t function in that environment anymore. I was trying to protect myself. But HR kept delaying any action. More emails followed, like one on July 19th, 2013, suggesting the bullying hadn’t stopped—without ever addressing what I was actually going through. By then, the damage was done. My illness had fully set in: I suffered from nightmares, hallucinations, and a deep distrust of everyone around me.

A psychologist’s note confirmed I was already viewing everything through a negative lens, and that I needed to strictly follow medical advice. That wasn't just an opinion—it was proof that my condition had reached a point where I could no longer function normally.

There was even a court ruling in a case involving the work accident insurance company, clearly stating that nothing had happened in the week before July 1st, 2013. And yet, your email described "intense discussions"—discussions that never took place, at least not with me. I had always denied it, and there were no witnesses. The collapse that followed wasn’t caused by something I did. It was caused by your actions.

That email hit me like a hammer. I said this back then too, during a conversation with my supervisor, Peter De Ridder—but my words were ignored. Not because they weren’t true, but because I wasn’t someone in power.

Later, a formal investigation confirmed what I had felt all along: there was a direct link between the bullying at work and my current psychological condition. My illness didn’t come from nowhere—it was the result of everything that was done to me, and everything that wasn’t done to protect me.

Even the union representative acknowledged that those emails were the moment things spiraled out of control. A prevention advisor was appointed, FOD Work and Welfare got involved—yet the pressure only increased. All I had asked for was a temporary transfer to clear my head and come back stronger. Instead, I was pushed further down.

Eventually, my condition worsened so badly that I left my wife and children behind for four months to undergo a special treatment program in India. That was my desperate attempt to heal.

I'm not trying to send anyone to prison. I’m not asking for revenge. I’m asking for recognition—compensation for the financial and emotional damage I’ve endured since July 1st, 2013. I hope we can reach a fair and peaceful resolution. All I want is to finally find the peace that has been taken from me for so many years.

 

A Letter from the Basement – My Cry for Understanding

My name is El Aissati Majid. I once had a job I showed up to every day with dedication and quiet strength. What began as a routine eventually became the beginning of a slow collapse that would change my life forever.

I wrote a letter once—from the basement where I now live, far from my family, far from the man I used to be. It came from a place of deep despair and pain.

During that time at work, I became ill. Not just physically, but mentally and spiritually. Something inside me began to break. And when I tried to explain this to the insurance, I was told it wasn’t a work accident—as if pain doesn’t count if it’s invisible.

The email that broke me came on July 1st, 2013. In it, HR claimed I had been involved in “heated discussions” with my team. To this day, I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t know what’s real anymore. Did I say something? Was it imagined? That doubt became a poison in my mind. It planted seeds of paranoia. I started hearing voices—ghosts, it felt like—whispering over and over: Did it happen? Was it you?

That endless questioning tore at my soul. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think. My heart would race for no reason, and my mind became a battlefield. I fell apart—and no one seemed to care.

No compensation was ever offered. No real recognition that something terrible had happened. Meanwhile, my life slipped further into darkness. I now live in my basement, isolated. I am no longer part of society. Every day is a quiet war. My family is distant—emotionally, physically. My dreams? Gone. My future? Unwritten.

That workplace was once a part of my identity. I worked hard. I showed up. But now that chapter only brings pain. I didn’t write that letter to place blame. I wrote it to ask for one simple thing: understanding. Justice. Recognition. Not out of anger, but because I need a chance—any chance—to rebuild.

I sent medical documents, proof of what happened to me. I included the very email that started it all. I asked to be seen not as a number or a file, but as a human being—a father, a man who had simply fallen through the cracks.

I don’t know if they ever truly listened. But I wrote that letter with the last bit of strength I had.

And now I share it here, not out of bitterness—but in the hope that someone will read this and understand how easily a workplace can become a wound. And how hard it is to heal when no one believes you're bleeding.

 

Annex 12 – The Mirror and the Soldier

Dear Sir,

When people feel unwelcome, they return to their roots.
Not out of radicalization,
but because they begin to ask themselves:
“Where do I belong, then?”

If you are constantly made to feel like an outsider—
watched, judged, excluded—
you turn around, and start searching for something that will accept you as you are.

Society often holds a mirror up to our faces.
A silent voice whispers:
“This is you. This is me.”
And we begin to search for differences.
Sometimes with a magnifying glass.
We zoom in, until all we see is contrast.
Until the nuance is lost.
And that, I believe, is dangerous—for everyone.

People blossom when they are allowed to simply be.
When they no longer have to explain themselves.
When they don’t have to dress or act a certain way
just to be “acceptable” in someone else’s eyes.

Once, on the Facebook page of Dries Van Langenhove,
someone called me a “Soldier of Allah.”
To them, that was meant as an insult.
To me, it was an honor.

I earned that name.
Not through hate.
Not through propaganda.
But through presence. Through action. Through love.

For years, I worked to build community in the Seefhoek.
To plant peace. To offer connection.
That nickname came from the Muslim community—
as a thank-you, as a mark of respect.

Yes, I was a soldier.
Not one with weapons.
But with words.
With acts of kindness.
A peacekeeper in blue.

That title is not a threat.
It is a mission.
And I will carry that mission, always.

With respect,
Majid

Annex 15 – The Invisible Bullet: What July 1, 2013 Did to Me

 

Dear Counselor,

Sometimes the hit doesn’t come with a bang, but with a click.

An email.

On July 1, 2013, I opened a message.
There was no bullet.
No blood.
No ambulance.
No newspaper headline.

But what it did to me...
was just as destructive.

Some people are hit by real bullets.
Like little Luna.
Like her nanny Oulematou.
They were physically wounded, right in the heart of Antwerp.

But my faith teaches:
"Do not think martyrs are dead."
No — they are alive,
close to Allah.
Safe.

Me? I didn’t get a bullet.
I got an email.
But the effect was the same: I died inside.

My head panicked.
My heart was confused.
My trust was broken.
My world shrank.
The street outside became dangerous.
My voice disappeared.

I didn’t walk the same anymore.
I didn’t think the same.
I didn’t feel the same.

And the worst part?
No one saw it.

Mental damage doesn’t come with a bandage.
No emergency doctor.
No sirens.
No police tape around the “crime scene.”

But believe me:
there was a crime scene.

That email was my bullet.
It hit my soul.
And yes — I’m still alive.
But I’ve never been the same since that day.

With quiet pain,
Majid

Annex 16 – The First Attempt to Bring Me Back: My Doctor Saw It

Dear Counselor,

On July 1, 2013, something hit me.
Not physically.
There was no wound you could see.
But I felt it — deep inside.
As if my heart had stopped.
As if my soul had disappeared.

And there was one person who noticed.

My family doctor.

He looked at me.
He saw no blood.
But he saw something much rarer:
A soul slipping away.

And what did he do?

He took action.

Like a first responder at the scene of an accident.
He tried to bring my heart back.
Not with electric shocks.
Not with injections.
But with words.
With care.
With seriousness.

He made a decision —
an important one.
He sent me to a psychiatrist.

He knew:
“Something serious is happening here. This person needs help.”

And the rest of the world?

They said:
“What’s this? Never heard of it. I don’t understand it.”

But my doctor saw the wound.
He recognized the poison.
He was the first to understand that an email… can also be deadly.

And that makes him —
in my eyes —
a true first responder.

With gratitude,
Majid

Annex 17 – Dr. Martens and the Law of the Bread

Dear Counselor,

There is one man I deeply respect: Dr. Martens.
A psychiatrist.
Soft voice.
Clear mind.

At the time, he was in his last working month.
Ready to retire.
Ready for his well-deserved rest.

And me?

I was 32 years old.
In the prime of my life.
My golden years.

But my golden years began in darkness.
And Dr. Martens saw it.

He looked at me the way a real doctor should:
Not just at the symptoms,
but at the person.

And he knew:
“Something is deeply wrong here.”

He acted.
He reached out to the company —
because that’s where it started.

That was the scene of the damage.
That’s where the people responsible were.
The Russian system.

He tried to contact the company’s medical service.
Doctor to doctor.
Hoping for recognition.
For cooperation.
For responsibility.

Because doctors speak the same language.
They recognize suffering.
They understand each other’s concern.

But the answer that came back wasn’t a medical term.
No empathy.
No teamwork.

The answer was:
“There is a law that says we cannot intervene.”

That’s when I understood.
My heart sank.

He who pays the bread, decides the words.

The doctor from the company’s medical service was stuck.
In the system.
In the company.
In the money.

He couldn’t — or wasn’t allowed to — help.
And the wound grew deeper.
The disappointment heavier.
The darkness darker.

But Dr. Martens?

He did what he could.
And for that, I will always be grateful.

With respect,
Majid