After years of hypomanic, depressed or plateau-ing, it is a strange thing to be a happy that doesn’t need analysis. I still have issues with body image. I still have some issues around alcohol. But on the whole, I feel… settled. And more than that, I feel satisfied. I am with someone, but my happiness isn’t all wrapped up in that.
I didn’t get the job I went for. Apparently the literary agent I met feels that my true passion lies in writing and that, therefore, I would be better off pursuing that than literary agency. She is happy to read my manuscript when it becomes ready. It hurt a lot to be rejected and I cried. A year ago, that would have spun me out of mood-control. Today it hurts, but I am hopeful. A job like that shows that there are jobs like that out there, for which I am qualified. Perhaps I will get one… perhaps not. I had a day of pessimism and I still worry that I will never find a job I like. It hasn’t spun me into spiral, hasn’t made me feel broken, or worthless. It wasn’t a standard rejection letter (“due to a high number of applicants…”) It was personal. In a way that upset me more, that there was something about me personally that stopped me from being considered for the role. But in another, it made me think (“I can really see you as an author,” she said) that I am capable of achieving my dreams.