...unless it's the end of the day, you're back in your apartment and alone.
I guess this deserves some explanation.
Friday afternoon was like any other Friday afternoon in the office. Everyone was at their desk, fingers dancing across their keyboard to get what needed to be drafted, delivered and finalized out of their inbox and off of their to-do list to make it out of the office by four o'clock. Four o'clock Fridays were drawing to an end and with only two (including that particular Friday) left, it was a dream to get out as close to four as possible.
So why the tears, you ask?
Well, I had a review that afternoon; and I look forward to reviews like a bug looks forward to the windshield of a car.
Holding back tears while being told I need to "work on my confidence," "be careful about being too creative" and really trying to "own things," I couldn't help but get pulled back to my time in New York. My family and friends will tell you I was not a happy camper in the big apple. I wasn't even close. I use strong words like "hate" and "disgust" to plainly allude to feelings that have only left a reminisce of my self-esteem in the working world. I had been bent and broken. I had been burned and shredded. Forever scared, with a bitter aftertaste that sits in the back of your throat like an ex-boyfriend's name.
Sitting in that conference room, I was once again "too much" while being "not enough." My edges were sharp, but in the wrong places. My accent marks punctuated the wrong part of the word. My kick of the ball landing it in the wrong goal. My efforts had been too strong in the wrong direction.
While the feedback stems from hopes of improvement, its flower perfumes a smell of disappointment. I left feeling more vulnerable than when I entered, than when I even started. Hunched from the weighted of the "criticism" I came back to my apartment and cried. I cried like that baby I really am, because let's be real...I have no idea what the heck I'm doing.
So what better thing to do then get it all down on this blog. Pour it all out and turn each piece over. One-by-one. Carefully, I'll find the pieces that connect. I'll build my boarder and piece together my picture. I will always be too much for some people. My accent forever a bit off. But I refuse to dull my edges and weaken my efforts. Those will stay as they are and the other parts of me will just learn to be as sharp and as strong, because there is no crying in PR.
Sincerely,
Cybill
I guess this deserves some explanation.
Friday afternoon was like any other Friday afternoon in the office. Everyone was at their desk, fingers dancing across their keyboard to get what needed to be drafted, delivered and finalized out of their inbox and off of their to-do list to make it out of the office by four o'clock. Four o'clock Fridays were drawing to an end and with only two (including that particular Friday) left, it was a dream to get out as close to four as possible.
So why the tears, you ask?
Well, I had a review that afternoon; and I look forward to reviews like a bug looks forward to the windshield of a car.
Holding back tears while being told I need to "work on my confidence," "be careful about being too creative" and really trying to "own things," I couldn't help but get pulled back to my time in New York. My family and friends will tell you I was not a happy camper in the big apple. I wasn't even close. I use strong words like "hate" and "disgust" to plainly allude to feelings that have only left a reminisce of my self-esteem in the working world. I had been bent and broken. I had been burned and shredded. Forever scared, with a bitter aftertaste that sits in the back of your throat like an ex-boyfriend's name.
Sitting in that conference room, I was once again "too much" while being "not enough." My edges were sharp, but in the wrong places. My accent marks punctuated the wrong part of the word. My kick of the ball landing it in the wrong goal. My efforts had been too strong in the wrong direction.
While the feedback stems from hopes of improvement, its flower perfumes a smell of disappointment. I left feeling more vulnerable than when I entered, than when I even started. Hunched from the weighted of the "criticism" I came back to my apartment and cried. I cried like that baby I really am, because let's be real...I have no idea what the heck I'm doing.
So what better thing to do then get it all down on this blog. Pour it all out and turn each piece over. One-by-one. Carefully, I'll find the pieces that connect. I'll build my boarder and piece together my picture. I will always be too much for some people. My accent forever a bit off. But I refuse to dull my edges and weaken my efforts. Those will stay as they are and the other parts of me will just learn to be as sharp and as strong, because there is no crying in PR.
Sincerely,
Cybill
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