When I think of the future, I imagine being in the same precarious position I’m in now, but fatter, wrinklier and even more fed up with my old, cold share house
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Every Friday I write a little essay about how great I am and send it off to a stranger. Sometimes I receive a generic rejection two or 12 weeks later, but usually they never reply.
I used to apply for jobs more often, but after a few hundred applications and increasingly worse mental health, I found I got exactly the same response whether I sent a thoroughly researched and edited cover letter or a picture of my cat, so I gave up trying so hard. I used to obsess about what was wrong with me. Everyone told me that it was them, not me; that it was business, not personal; that doing the same thing over and over while expecting a different outcome was extremely sane. But still, every rejection fed the little worm in my brain that said I was useless. I don’t think the worm is entirely in the wrong. I think it’s normal to feel like a reject after being repeatedly rejected, to feel worthless when your bank balance is zero, to feel lost after losing.
