Oh my lord. I spoke to a recruitment agent on Friday about what can only be described as “the dream job”.
I mean, really, it’s like the mother ship is calling me home. Everything I could love about working is wrapped up in its duties – and the company (who’s name I dare not even speak out loud, suffice to say you will have heard of them) is simply perfect.
The recruitment agent said I sounded like a great candidate and has agreed to put me forward.
And now? I’m in a fever. I know this is my role. I can’t stand the idea of someone else having it. Whenever I’ve walked by this company’s Soho offices and looked at the bright displays of their atrium (and I’ve done so several times during my time in London), I’ve thought wistfully of working there.
When I found the job online on the company website, I didn’t apply. I ran the keywords through Google until I found the recruitment agency they were using. I tweeted that recruitment agency so I had a direct contact to email. I wasn’t risking my application disappearing into an inbox. I also contacted two other recruiters I know have contacts at the company, just so I have more irons in the fire.
After the agent called me and told me he wanted to put me forward, I fell to my knees in the middle of the living room, and prayed. I said that if I landed this role, I would forfeit all hatred and resentment towards my final boss and the devious methods he used to have me fired. I would send him flowers for ousting me from the company and, thus, throwing me into the arms of this wonderful new opportunity.
Please. Please just get me as far as the interview, Lord. That’s all I ask. Just get me to an interview and I will do the rest.
I felt a pang yesterday as I sat in the park with friends to celebrate Sian’s birthday. As conversation inevitably moved over jobs, I tried to blend in with the ground. Yes, I have my freelance work to tide me over. But it’s an interim, nothing more. I need to feel the stimulus and excitement of full-time work again. I want my routine back.
Most of all, I want somewhere with the chance to grow. I want a place where I can make something of myself. Where I can showcase my talents and advance in what I’m good at; not what some two-bit talent manager thinks I should be doing, who is so determined to make my life miserable he’d actively take away the aspects of the job I enjoy.
The truth is I’m getting scared. I feel the walls begin to close in around me. I feel that I can move on with my life, that I am stagnating I don’t know where to go. It feels like the world is turning but that I’m not turning with it. London moves and swirls, yet I stand and stay the same. If I don’t manage to at least get to an interview with this opportunity, I fear something in me will break. Some days I feel like such an utter failure but I don’t know which way to turn. I feel desire and ambition seep out of me, until I don’t know what it is I want. The dreaded “feeling” encroaches into my room on silent feet, pummelling me invisibly until I am doubled over with the pain; the despair of threatening to engulf me, to block out every other feeling.
I know to feel this way is ridiculous, but the rational part of my mind is swallowed up, engulfed by a monster I can only name as “the feeling”. It comes when I don’t expect it. It turns my deep slumber into a realm of shallow nightmares, until I wake sweating and disgusted. Lost in the hatred for myself, for the world, from what has happened.
I know that just above the surface lies hope, that it sits with my friends and the other positive experiences I’m trying to surround myself with in the midst of all the blackness. But when you are sleeping below the surface, when self-made shoes of iron are pulling you down into the abyss, hope can seem very far away.