So, I've had something of a tumultuous, crazy several weeks.
Rejection is an ordinary part of life. And, while there may be some added emotional sting to the rejection that comes with creative pursuits, it is still no different than the rejection that greets us every day. I am practiced at rejection. I like to mention to people who think that they will work at a library that I got hired on my 98th application. I have submitted poetry to literary journals every week for almost two years now. I went through a list of over 150 agents when I was first pitching my first novel. Rejection is something that I have a lot of practice at.
I'm applying for jobs, right? Because I legitimately cannot stay at the one that I am at. Because I need to be an adult for a little while, and I need to find something stable. I need a job where I will always know that I will have health insurance. I need a work week that is the same every week. I need a career that has somewhere to go. Because I'm sick of being poor and trying to make the impossible be financially fungible. It isn't. Because I need a job where I don't have to worry about talking to people every day and letting my social meter slowly degrade while I neglect friendships and relationships.
So, I went in for surgery yesterday. It was a pretty routine exploratory surgery (meaning that they were looking for problems and confirming diagnosis, rather than treating anything), but it meant that I was put under. And as one of the nurses was working her way through the usual intake questions about family history, and whether or not you felt safe at home, and whether or not you have thoughts of harming yourself or taking your own life.
A couple years ago I started to see references to the term "narrative therapy" as a therapeutic toolset. At the time I was between therapists, but while art therapy, cognitive behavioral theory, and more traditional psychotherapy had all felt artificial and problematic, I instantly grasped and appreciated narrative therapy.