If I were a skeptical type that believed in lucky numbers and auras I’d tell you that a theme was emerging in my life and it comes in the shape of rejection.

I did start writing this piece as a comment on not fitting in but its turned into being about something far more hurtful. I flog myself as a performer, some even go as far as calling me a performance artist but I’ve never quite fitted into that gang. Yesterday when speaking to a colleague I realized I’ve never been invited to perform at any of the performance art or cabaret festivals in the world let alone UK; instead of being content with the fact I’m maybe just not be right for them I’m somehow convinced this is because they don’t like me or have a personal vendetta against me, my colleague helpfully uttered the words “it’s possibly because they don’t take your seriously enough”.

Now before this sounds like a moaning artist whose left her cake out in the rain, this week I’ve been taken off the bill for a stage show in two days, had a production company pull out of a show, been thrown the book, lost out on a large sum of cash I planned to live on in the Autumn, renegotiated a fee for work that has already been completed, had a rejection letter from the sectors big wigs, been told off by the Arts Council, lost possible funding / support for my solo show, had to submit a report about how I was royally fucked over by a venue last year and have only a handful of punters book for my show that opens on Saturday - this is what people off The Apprentice call ‘a bad week’ that’s found me on the brink of tears at every brutal hurdle, which makes me question is it really worth it?   

I still sound like a moaning Minnie but rejection is possibly the hardest emotion for me to overcome and one I’ve had a long history with. It all stems from when I was 8 years old, my Aunt would take me everywhere. I didn’t have any siblings so my trendy Aunt was my lifeline to summer holiday trips on the tube. Unfortunately she liked a bevvy and on nine occasions left me stood waiting at the door with a packed bag, eagerly awaiting her arrival until it got dark. Since these days of broken promises I’ve tried to harden up and not expect humans to do what you want but rejection seems to have no cure and still throws me unexpectedly down the slippery slope of depression. Is this normal? Do these things upset normal people?

This week has also made me realize I’ve always been the reject – being singled out as the fat one, the one that acts like a girl or the gay one. I’ve never quite fitted in. I, like most of society’s rejects highlight my oddness by dressing differently; is exhibitionism a cry for help from life’s reject pile?

One side of me wants to run away, get a job in Greggs and live a simpler life that’s doesn’t wreck my mental health at every corner. There is something quite attractive about a job that doesn’t mean your soul is for sale, you’re personality publically criticized leaving your emotions erratic.

Whatever happens I can feel change brewing, which is exciting but could mean its time to move on.

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