Rejection is a bitch

After having gone through the stages of grief; in my opinion – denial, shock, distress, anger, sadness, acceptance, I’ve now come to the point where I am looking to rejoin the land of the living.

I won’t lie to you. Financial pressure is one of the reason I am considering this.

I’ve taken two months off work so far. But I still feel like I am not ready to go back to work. I am still largely unable to function properly. I can’t complete simple tasks, even at home in my personal life.

I was feeling okay recently, and applying to a couple of jobs – when I received a rejection for a role I was particularly interested in. Needless to say, rejection is a bitch to deal with, and so it has sent me on a downer.

It’s made me feel like I need to claw back desperately to cling onto anything this world is offering me to feel like I am worth something. That I am not just left red-faced on the back of the humiliation of rejection.

Now, I am wondering whether to beg for my old job back. The one I just couldn’t face day to day. Is it really the answer to push yourself back into doing something you know is not making you happy out of necessity?

The job was fine though. It is just difficult. And I am trying to avoid anything difficult in my life right now. That’s funny; seeing as all I’ve ever done is make my own life difficult because I’ve never felt like I am good enough.

And here comes the crux of the matter. It is purely BECAUSE I feel like I am not good enough, that it costs me A LOT of mental energy to participate in society. This is why I am finding life (and working) difficult. And that COST is what is killing me. It’s what is making me tired. It’s why I needed a rest.

So – I may go back to work very soon. But at what cost? If I go back and I am not ready, will I just fall again? How long do I wait, till my debts and my finances are at such a stretch that everything begins to fall apart?

We all live our lives like zombies – to pay the bills. Right? That’s what it boils down to.

So who am I? What is the point of me? Do I work to live, or live to work?





I always want to be raw and honest about my struggles in this blog. This is what it is for.

My anonymity is what is keeping this blog in the public domain.

But I am wondering whether to join the battle in exposing taboos around mental illness by making Youtube vlogs. I will be considering this.

I am a product of my anxiety. And I fucking hate it

Another job rejection email.

I feel that same sinking feeling I usually do when I’ve been rejected, yet again.

My heart sinks and my head is full of lead.

I brush it off, and proceed to continue with the lecture I am currently attending. At university. To better myself, supposedly.

But the black, thick cloud of doubt has settled itself inside my brain. It placed itself neatly onto a comfy plush sofa in the corner, put its feet up and grabbed a magazine.

It wiggled its bum into the cushion to get comfy, grabbed the cup of tea from the coffee table and has settled in for the long haul.

The Black Cloud of Doubt will no doubt be with me for the rest of the day. And I’ll go back to my flat, where I’m currently staying to see the academic year out, and I’ll start this blog.

Because, as I was walking back home for lunch I was desperately searching for domain names on the internet. Hoping the one I wanted was free.

I’d been thinking about blogging my experiences for a while. Because I think some of you – the audience – the readers – the viewers – will feel what I am feeling. Sometimes, all of the time. Maybe every single day.

What is wrong with me?

I ask this almost every single time I’m overcome with my feelings of worthlessness.

And it happens often.

Shall we journey together on this one now?

I searched the forums and they’re far too complicated. Too many rules – too many people jostling for space.

I tried counselling, it doesn’t help. I tried the medication for one week, I didn’t need it.

Say it out loud, what I have. I’m telling myself to type out the words. I’m nervous. Tell the internet what I am. How I feel. Go on… type it.

I watch the cursor blink at me for a few seconds.


I am a product of my anxiety. And I fucking hate it.