Punch in the face

You know, I enjoy a good punch in the face as much as the next person. Or even a sucker punch to the kidneys. Why not? All part of life’s rich tapestry, right? That said, I wasn’t entirely sorry that it was looking as if a week might go by without one.

All things considered (especially considering how bad many of the weeks before had been), last week was a pretty good week. Not sure if the double dose of the meds has had time to kick in, but I was taking some positive steps. For example, I’d realised that, if this novel wasn’t going to be written (which at this point it clearly wasn’t), I needed to replace writing fiction with something more useful than endless computer games.

Then I found this project I thought would be perfect for me and would certainly give me something positive on which to focus my energy. So I submitted a proposal to get the project off the ground, confident that it would be accepted and that for several weeks I’d be flying high. I spent a couple of days working on it, filled with anticipation, liking it more and more.

Last night, just I was about to start making dinner I received a phone call. “Sorry, this doesn’t fit with our plans at the moment. And, to be honest, we didn’t really like the proposal.” And between the lines: Don’t call us, we’ll call you. And, of course, to my beaten down psyche, what “we didn’t like the proposal” really means is “we don’t like you.”

We don’t like you, you’re not good enough, no one is interested. This is what I’m hearing. Would the verdict have been different if I’d said when making the proposal that giving it the green light would be a much appreciated boost to my mental health? I don’t know. Perhaps. But I didn’t think I had to do that, because I thought the project and my involvement in it would be all that was needed to sell it. Apparently not.

I thought I was going to go without a slap in the face last week, but I was wrong. Oh, goodie.

So, I got off the phone and, instead of going back to the kitchen to make asparagus risotto for dinner, I sat on the sofa and played stupid fucking spider solitaire for four hours and then ate a bowl of popcorn, because it was far too late to make risotto. And anyway, why should a loser like me have decent food to eat?

Now I’ve slept on it and how do I feel? Well, I know that no one set out deliberately to sucker punch me. And perhaps if I’d said last week, “Look, guys, this proposal is a mental health issue for me,” the answer might have been different. But that really is cold comfort, because I really did believe in the worthiness of the project in and of itself and now two people have told me they do not agree. So apparently I have no taste or judgement.

Okay, okay. That’s not true. I have plenty of taste and judgement. It doesn’t mean everyone else has the same taste. Vive la difference, right?

It wasn’t a knockout punch. The world is still turning and I’m still here. I need to find another distraction. No idea at the moment what that will be. I’ll have to go around that famous corner and see what’s waiting there.