Stuff. Meh.

Today's delivery of another rejection email in my inbox brings me to the conclusion that THIS FUCKING BLOWS!  So instead of using my fingers to mix up some Molotovs to hurl through a number of HR office windows, I'll put them to work on my Mac keyboard.  Less rewarding?  Maybe, but certainly much more civilized.  Besides, I hate the smell of gasoline.

It is times like this that I feel my decision to move to Australia was ill-chosen.  I know the preceding statement will be greeted with difficulty by a few who read this (and, perhaps, with substantial offense), but all I can say in response is, 1) in no way do I say it to undermine or deemphasize the intense and numerous joys that my life in Australia has brought me, 2) there are probably a number of other decisions I have made that were chosen without adequate consideration of the consequences, and 3) please, for the sake of therapy, just let me speak.

Flashback to 1981. A goofy, affable, hard-working and somewhat talented high-school student from a lower middle-class background exits 16th out of a graduating class of 483 from his rural Arkansas secondary school. He is told this is good, but he doesn't care.  All he knows is school, drama, band and choir were his welcomed escape from the stifling existence of working in his dad's shop and being made to feel inferior for a variety of reasons. Determined to be an actor and possessing the grades and talent to attend a number of reputable tertiary institutions outside of his home state, he is dissuaded from the goal of attending one of these well-placed schools by family members who feel threatened by the thought of leaving home. Upon receiving the offer of a full scholarship to attend the flagship state university in his hometown, he decided to accept.  (Hold the confetti, because in 1981, such a scholarship would cost this school about $1500 per year for an instate resident, but to him that was still a lot of money.)  With confusing sadness, he carefully stacked the many brochures and catalogues from exotic places like Boston Conservatory or University of Maryland in the fake, plastic Wal-Mart steamer trunk that housed many other representatives of his early dreams and aspirations, relics which, along with many of his family's other prized possesions, such as discarded clothing, broken lawn mowers and animal husbandry textbooks from his father's ill-fated attempt at university, ended up being stored in a derelict structure known as the "chicken house" at the rear of his grandfather's property. In a few years, these items would perish when the building collapsed and eventually, after both grandparents passed on, razed to make way for further development of the land after it was sold.  The scholarship offered, however, was not to study acting.  It was to study voice, an instrument he came to late in his high school years, and with which he was still uncomfortable.  After many years of being derided for a lack of singing talent by his older sister who, with hate in her voice and a belt in her hand, would often loudly proclaim (when Mom and Dad were busy working in the shop and it was only the two of them in the house), "You can't sing! You play clarinet and I sing in choir, so stick with what you know!"  Receiving no real guidance from school counselors or his parents, other than the admonition not to stray from the backyard, and being brought up only to feel that he should take orders, follow rules, be seen and not heard (if that), and never engage in critical thought, he accepted the scholarship because his private voice teacher during his senior year had arranged the audition and thought it best for him.  Sadly, no one asked him what he wanted to do.

Thirty years later, I realize that those early underpinnings of adulthood have not held me in good stead for the ability to make decisions in later life.  In fact, I do not think I was ever given the tools to make decisions.  Throughout my childhood, everything was either black or white, cut and dried.  There were rules to be followed.  There was no middle ground.  Questioning the theory behind rules or a the philosophy that fueled a mindset led to disastrous results.  When you are brought up being told what to do with no explanation, and when you are shut down or penalized for diplaying an inquisitive nature, it makes sense that you would defer to anyone who might show some guidance.  After many years of this, I am left bitter, sad and without much hope. Mostly, however, I am just scared.  I am broke. I have no career. I am growing older at an alarming rate. I feel voiceless.

Let me now add that I have had a number of wonderful experiences and opportunities in my life. Reading through my CV leads people to amazement. To me, it conjures up loathing and self-doubt, largely because the last decade has seen nothing.  But CVs only represent the educational and professional components of a person's life.  Thank goodness there have been other life events to counter the inverse proportion in which my career has progressed.  I am thankful for Mark, Zane and all of my friends and extended family.  They are the ones who have made me who I am today on a very human and personal level.  For the past few years, as I have tried to eke out a professional existence in this country far away from whatever I have known as "home", they have held me together.  I have fought hard to realize that I am worth this attention.  Now, having accepted that realization, it is time to move ahead with my professional life.  When I approached 40 and returned to graduate school to get my doctorate, I felt I had finally got a good start on this.  Unfortunately, given the meaningless nature of my doctorate in Australia, it opens no doors.  It gives no choice.  So I must face the fact that I, now approaching 50, must consider something different.  People have told me to "think laterally", which I have done.  I have looked for things in an allied field.  I have applied for a great many positions in this regard.  For each, I either near nothing or have received a rejection notice without even garnering an interview.  I am now considering life coaching.  At 49.  Yes, life blows.

Comments

[Erik Rubright]

I think, for me, breaking that black/white way of thinking and learning it's okay to be gray has been the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. And I still regress back to black/white from time to time. But there is hope.

And as for the rest, all I can say is hang in there buddy.

*hugs* all the way from Arkansas

[urspo]

Life blows from time to time, like now. I hope this time passes soon.

[Ian]

A temporary blip is all. You will get through it. I am currently looking for work also, it does blow.