Fall Seven Times. Stand Up Eight. Don’t Cry.

So, in terms of jobsearch, I have had a couple of rejections now.  I am only counting the ones that mean something to me.  The ones where I really wanted the jobs, where I took care over my application and where I believed absolutely (and this is rare) that I could do those jobs, do them well, and enjoy them.

I’m not counting the dozens of things where I have just clicked eg on LinkedIn and a little paper plane logo told me that my application was on its way, with no further effort on my part.  With those ones (including one to a firm run by an ex, not my ex-husband) I don’t get so much as an acknowledgment.  (It ought to be so easy to automate a reply.)

So there are all these rejections, some virtually unnoticed, and some feeling very personal indeed.  Of course they bring up other rejections.  The old friend who doesn’t return my calls, even the potential customer who cancels the airbnb booking.  Going up the scale: the ex-husband who defies a court order to pay maintenance for his children and refuses to respond in any way to requests for him to do so; the child who chooses to live with him and have nothing to do with the rest of us.

Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.
– Dalai Lama

I have an old friend who – I genuinely believe – loves me dearly.  Barely a week goes by in which he doesn’t propose a meeting and then postpone it.  I don’t say so to him but this affects me very badly; makes me feel like a bitterly disappointed child.  Each time I hear that he will come over on Tuesday or will definitely meet me for dinner Thursday, or will telephone in half an hour, I fall for it all over again.  I think my dismay when he does not is out of proportion.  I know that I should learn not to sit by the phone, or cancel other engagements.  But I do.

Each rejection or disappointment is a dagger plunged into the chest.  Overwhelming.  Why do I take it so hard?  Why can’t I think, as others presumably can ‘just one of those things’ or ‘their loss’ and leave my self-worth intact?  I must try to channel some of these people. Like JK Rowling, who received so many rejections before finding a publisher for Harry Potter.

I have been trying to get therapy for quite a long time now.  My local council has a service you can contact; I have done so and been ignored three times (more rejection!) and the GP doesn’t seem to have anything else to offer.  A while ago when googling Susie Orbach I came across the Women’s Therapy Centre which offers means-tested analysis.  I joined the waiting list.  My name came up at last and I went for an assessment.  The very nice therapist I saw seemed keen to put me into a group starting Monday.  Oo-er!  I hadn’t expected that.  But immediately I had left the building to cross town on the tube back home I realised how much I wanted to do it.  How much more interesting a group would be than just talking out loud about myself as I have done before.  How much more illuminating.  (Bizarrely I even felt a twinge of disappointment when I realised that there would be no men in the group, as if I give a shit about gender.)  The group had its first meeting last Monday, before my assessment, but the analyst assured me I could join next Monday.  She phoned Thursday to say she had not been able to get hold of her supervisor to confirm, so I couldn’t join.  Crushed.  I feel like a toddler and want to have a tantrum, only I haven’t the energy.  I feel as though because this has gone wrong, EVERYTHING is wrong.  Of course, everything IS wrong.  Waaaah!


PS  Coincidence.  Following day and look what appears in my FB feed:


I saw it when I got back from my first group therapy session: yes, late on Sunday night I got a call which went straight to vm inviting me to come because someone else had dropped out.  The dropping out should be irrelevant to the question of whether the supervisor thinks it suitable for me; clearly the group leader wants more bums on seats, so lucky me!  Yippee!  Will keep further discussion of group to another day.


Image: A card I bought years ago for my now estranged daughter, whose love for her Piglet was vast.  It’s by wonderful feminist cartoonist and author Jackie Fleming.


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Florence Feynman

I am a middle aged, middle class woman, thinking.

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