You know that feel when your heart seems to sink down to your stomach, creating a knot, and then you are not able to eat?
I just got that.
I was on my way out for fish tacos when I received a rejection email. It felt like that immediately. I’m completely disillusioned. I had high hopes. I gambled on it. I thought I did a great job. My roommate thought so too. He confidently said that they will take it.
I still went for my fish tacos. But I am no longer hungry. They sit in the kitchen counter until I have the need to feed. Not pleasantly. Just plain feeding.
And yes. It is depressing me. Depress. As in, I feel a heavy weight in my back crushing me with financial insecurity and a career path that once again seems wrong. At least wrong for me.
I should have been an engineer.
Or have studied computer science.
I’m good with tech related stuff. I’m good with math. I’m good basically at anything I really want too. But I’m fucking lazy. And that made me choose a different path. A creative path. To earn a living in a distinct matter.
I feel like I got underpaid on last payment. This time is not even being underpaid, it’s flat out not getting paid. And that’s what rejection entails. Especially when you have to wait for that rejection. Days of just hoping, just to finally get crushed.
I can be very dramatic. In fact, I mostly am. It takes little for me to overreact and say fuck everything. And that’s how I feel right now. Fuck everything. I’m done. Just give me a shitty regular job that will remove financial stress. Two rejections this week. November seems that it will be the worst month of the year.
And I was happy. I was doing great. I was inspired. It all comes crashing down with a single rejection. One that I don’t really understand. That article was so much better than so many of the things I have read in the same publication. It was actually another one that I thoroughly enjoyed writing and reading. I read it again and again. I liked it. Which is rare of me to like my own writing. It’s worthless now. As in is worth less than it used too. I still can scrape some money out of it. Not what I want. And it will take forever to pay. But I can.
I wish I was stronger. A friend gets rejected daily. He never stops. He is relentless. He just keeps writing and writing. He doesn’t also care much about quality. It’s quantity over quality for him. I’ve always been a bit of the other way around. Quality trumps quantity for the most part. But when quality gets overlooked and its quantity that they want, I might have to adjust. I don’t want too. I already wrote quantity over quality in my first writing gig. I didn’t like it. I felt ashamed that my name was associated with certain articles. I don’t want to go back to that.
I don’t want to go back to writing at all. I must for the next few weeks. Probably until the end of the year. Probably for the rest of my life. But the uncertainty is too much. It’s my own fault.
I knew my luck wouldn’t last long. Press is dying.
I just want to crawl in a ball and pretend I am this age again: