Tag Archives: rejection

August 5, 2016

betrayal, rejection, the usual and then the six month plan

By arlynnpresser

the great theologian and my personal adviser on all matters of faith rev. mike coglan once asked me to imagine for just one moment what it would feel like if i knew, really knew, that God loved me.  exactly the way i am.  even with the things i have done or, perhaps especially, the things i have considered doing.  regardless of how anyone might feel about me and their criticisms or snubs of no mind because God loves me.  hold that imagining for a moment.  and then another moment.

turnpike

this is not a thought experiment to perform while driving on the ohio turnpike. when i did it, i had to pull over because the emotion was so overwhelming. otherwise, that eighteen wheeler behind me would have started a mosh pit of cars and trucks and amish carriages. our tippy cups are filled with self loathing and guilt when we are young. i was able to work up to ten seconds or so with that thought. then i’d be my usual self.

 

stick with me here, we’re going to get through the bad news like a quick liver sausage dinner and save the good news for last like a delicate tiramasu!

i absorb all the negatives and slings and arrows of outrageous (and some spot on) circumstance and influences.  maybe you do too.  i’m not good enough.  i’m too fat.  i’m too stupid.  i’m too old.* i’ve done too little to deserve to suck oxygen in the same planet as (insert anybody’s name here).  i’m not good enough for any expenditure of the two greatest treasures–time and talent–that any worthy person has.**

rejection

ugh, you can’t sit at this lunch table!  have you ever noticed that the cool kids had the power to reject you and that made them even cooler?  and we didn’t have taylor swift whispering in our ear “shake it off off off!”  i sometimes feel like i have never functionally graduated high school.  oh, yeah, i forgot.  i didn’t actually graduate high school.

some people i.e. the coolest of cool kids can oscillate rejection and acceptance in just the right way.  third period they’re sharing their snickers with you and seventh period they boldly announce that you’re a bed wetter.  the truly bad news is you’ll still think they’re cool and that you’re not.  you’ll hold onto seventh period until you’re on your deathbed and you tell the story of that betrayal to a nurse who will just assume that you’re mumbling again.  the baddest of all bad news is that you can’t be betrayed by a stranger.  only by someone you love and trust and think you know.

cute puppy

oscillating acceptance and rejection is a sure fire way to make your dog go crazy. putting a picture of a cute puppy in a blog post is a sure fire way of making people go “awwwww!”

 

are we done with the bad news yet?  well, actually, not quite.  just one more smidgen of liver sausage coming in for a landing on your tongue.

all this bad juju makes for bad choices, bad health, bad consequences.  i’ve got more than my share.  too many sleepless nights thinking of what did i do wrong.  too many sleepless nights standing in front of the refrigerator sniffing through boxes of leftover Chinese carryout.  too many times i have gone along with something i didn’t feel right about.  but thought that if i did, i’d be liked, loved, accepted.  i am invariably wrong.

how about you?

are we done yet?  are we done yet?  yes, stop it we are!  we’re at the good news and the six month plan.

 

my dear friend and couturier jeweler designer susan laid down the law in a very tender but firm way after the portland airport incident.  i had collapsed just after being molested in the usual but invasive way by a tsa agent.  i had a seizure.  a concussion.  i woke up in an ambulance with a paramedic asking

“what’s your name?  do you know your name?”

“i don’t remember,”  i replied haughtily.  well, as haughtily as one can do when one is in an ambulance and doesn’t remember one’s name.  i added “lots of people do not remember their name.”

“what about your birthday?”  asked another paramedic crowding into the scene.  “you know your birthday?”

“a gentleman never asks that question of a lady,”  i said.  full throttle maggie smith vigor.  “i wouldn’t presume to ask yours.”

portland hospital

what a great hospital! really nice doctors and nurses. they gave me the functional equivalent of a checkup in just a few hours and concluded that i’m a pretty much healthy femme d’une certain age but that i might need a neurologist/neurosurgeon and definitely should check back in with my primary care physician when i got back home.  and i’m still a bit wonky because of the accident with the 75 pound dog excited to go for a walk in the snow and the 45 degree pitch driveway that i never followed up on.

i don’t have a primary care physician.  i haven’t been to the dentist since cyndi lauper put out her best album.  i don’t get my hair done or my nails did (slight reference to drake — you fancy huh?) i’ve sort of given up.

“you need to take care of yourself,”  susan advised.  “you’re the only one who will.  you need to spend six months taking care of yourself.  putting yourself first.  nobody else. you’re number one for the next six months.”

she’s known me since i wore leg warmers over my jeans so i trust her.

excuse me?  where is the good news here?  i thought we were at the good news part.

well, there is good news.  i am going to spend the next six months repairing myself.  maybe you need this too.  maybe we do it together.  i’m starting small.  but i’m going to work my way back to whatever i was before the tippy cup sprayed all over me.

number one i’m not going to buy any article of clothing that is black for the next six months.

black

i have half a dozen black sweaters. no colors. same with skirts, pants, jackets, shoes. in the eighties (nineteenth not eighteenth) it was a sophisticated choice. now i just look like i’m going to my own funeral. ashes to my ashes and dust to my dust. do you have a similar wardrobe quirk?  or a similar habit that tends to reinforce a sense that you’re not worth much?  btw, black as a wardrobe choice makes it possible to disappear.  can you see me in this  picture of my dress?

 

my next project is to get myself a primary care physician.  oh, and a dentist.  i am taking recommendations. bon vivant and devastatingly handsome seventyish bill seymour has given me the name of one i hope will take me on.  a little rough getting a primary care physician these days bur we’ll give it a shot.

party girl

goodbye black dresses. and goodbye, or at least au revoir, to the negative. one moment by this moment. kind of need to pull over on this ohio turnpike.  at least until february 5, 2017

 

*lately, i’ve been getting the “too old or otherwise invisible” message from folks.  guess my age.  anything less than 56 gets you a prize.  i don’t know what the prize is.  it might be a pony.  or backstage passes to (insert name of hipster band here).  or it might just be a thank you note.

**that one is not quite true.  my good friend and theater impresario chris johnson is directing a play i wrote while on a thirty day road trip to canada.  i did not drive and write at the same time.  otherwise i’d have to insert that picture from the ohio turnpike again.  the show was produced by theologian slash accountant jim masini

remembrancestsebastian

the show is this weekend at the st. sebastian players in chicago — https://www.facebook.com/events/149459822146863/ — but it’s not the first time it’s had a run. two runs of the show were done by blockbuster producer marion scully. and another time at the chicago literary club. actors, sound engineers, musicians, even the nice lady beverly parkhurst who takes the tickets–every one of them, every single one of them gave up time and talent for the play. i’m going this weekend and i hope to see you there! and ps if you’re a broadway producer feel free to contact me!  if you’re an actor or actress, please understand that only the dumbest sleep on the casting couch of the writer.  it won’t advance your career at all.

 

p.s. i managed to get an appoint august 22 with a doctor in glenview.  first thing of course is getting approval from the insurance company. . …

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April 19, 2013

not quite an internet sensation

By arlynnpresser

in the dark ages–which is to say thirty years ago–my ambition was to write the great american novel.  i retired to the tool desk in the garage of the foster family in which i lived.  i laid in supplies — cigarettes, paper, and a particularly vile cocktail of tab with a shot of vodka.  i used an unforgiving i.b.m. selectric:  every mistake required a careful application of white out and if there were enough frustrations on a page. . .

ripping a page out and starting over was a frustration. a thousand sheet ream of paper might yield only a twenty page short story. think about how often you hit the backspace key.

ripping a page out and starting over was a frustration. a thousand sheet ream of paper might yield only a twenty page short story. think about how often you hit the backspace key.

ten years later, on the edge of my thirties, i sold my first novel.  publishing a short story, a poem or a novel required printing out the entire piece, mailing it with a return self addressed envelop to a publisher, and waiting.  waiting, waiting and waiting some more.  and then getting a rejection letter that would ruin my day or a week or a month.

a form letter is devastating because it has so many ways of being interpreted. . . from "i liked the story but my boss didn't" to "you don't even have the talent to write a grocery list". . . the new yorker magazine gets so many submissions that in the last few years they have instituted a policy of not even giving the writer this much in the way of subject matter for their insecurities.

a form letter is devastating because it has so many ways of being interpreted. . . from “i liked the story but my boss didn’t” to “you don’t even have the talent to write a grocery list”. . . the new yorker magazine gets so many submissions that in the last few years they have instituted a policy of not even giving the writer this much in the way of subject matter for their insecurities.

internet self-publishing means there is no publisher membrane between the writer and reader.  there can be true collaboration between writer and reader, as there has been in the book “wool” written in serial form by hugh howley and his readers.  that is the sort of collaboration and accessibility that i’d like.  

this story was uploaded to amazon by my friend oj. i want you to read it, review it, and help write its second draft. click on http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CE04WGW to find it. oj, by the way, now qualifies as a publisher because he designed the cover and uploaded the text. would you like him to do this for your next story? because then i could download it and give you my feedback. it's like we're a writer's colony and i'm still in my pajamas.

this story was uploaded to amazon by my friend oj. i want you to read it, review it, and help write its second draft. click on http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CE04WGW to find it. oj, by the way, now qualifies as a publisher because he designed the cover and uploaded the text. would you like him to do this for your next story? because then i could download it and give you my feedback. it’s like we’re a writer’s colony and i’m still in my pajamas.  p.s. this story is about a man and his whooping crane.  an interspecies love story.

 

so i hope you’ll download this story.  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CE04WGW  and that you’ll like it, review it, give me “room for improvement” comments.  and i hope to publish more stories this way.  and then i hope you will like those.  i don’t expect to be an internet sensation but i hope for a good reader-writer relationship.  maybe even have lunch with a reader.  or write the great american novel even if it’s just a small little treasure for me and a reader.

really, this sort of correspondence can kill even the best ambitions. shouldn't we do our best to avoid putting ourselves through this?

really, this sort of correspondence can kill even the best ambitions. shouldn’t we do our best to avoid putting ourselves through this?

 

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September 24, 2012

dear alcohol, we need to talk

By arlynnpresser

dear alcohol,

it’s never good when a girl says “we need to talk”.. . . and this isn’t going to be good. but i have to do this.  i really do.

no question, you’ve been there for me all through the years. in cans, in crystal glasses, at parties, at bars, and sometimes when no one else wanted to be with me. best friends forever, you’ve always said!

i went to florida two weeks ago with some high hopes, and i didn’t think you were going to get so . . . . well, aggressive.  i was going to visit with facebook friends in tallahassee, tampa, and orlando.  i was going to bring my dad justin along with me.  we were going to bond.  you were going to be just something i had with dinner–or before flights.

bonding with my father is an ongoing process. he and my mother placed me for adoption when i was three years old. this is a picture of me and my new mother on the morning i was baptized, a few weeks after the adoption became final. i met my father and mother when i was twenty five years old–using a private detective to track them down.

 

the day before the trip, my dad texted me and said he didn’t feel he was up to traveling with me from his place in tallahassee to the other cities in florida.  i would stay with him and his wife on sunday evening, rent a car and sally forth throughout the state, returning on friday to catch a plane back to chicago.

but when i got to florida, i was surprised to discover that my father justin’s wife was going on a business trip.  and that justin was a lot sicker than i had ever imagined.  and that he was undergoing provenge treatment over the course of the week and the clinic wanted someone with him.  that person would be me.

i cancelled all the facebook friend visits outside of tallahassee. my friends were so understanding. i was going to bake a cake with jennifer in tampa and she said “no problem” and made the cake on her own and posted it on my wall. the cake tells the story of my visits to see facebook friends all over the world. thank you jennifer!

 

the first phase of the provenge treatment went well.  justin and i watched television while his blood was taken from one arm, processed through a machine and reinserted (minus white blood cells) into the other.  he was weak, he slept most of the days, he had no appetite.  he slept in the master bedroom, i slept in the guest room.

his wife came home on wednesday evening.  i volunteered to take justin to phase two of his provenge treatment on friday before my flight.  he would be given a very high dose of benadryl and his own white blood cells–new and improved by some mysterious process–would be reintroduced to his body.  he needed to have someone help him get home.  also, it’s just good to have someone be an advocate for your care.  especially since provenge is still in its experimental phase.

justin is actually the first person in tallahassee to get the provenge treatment. it went well, by the way, and he says he feels better. he will get two more treatments.  i’m not sure what happens after that.

the next morning my stepmother’s first words to me were “you need to get a hotel room because i can’t sleep with justin.  he snores and he disturbs my sleep.  he has to sleep in the guest room.”

i felt the hostility.  it’s always been there lurking beneath a surface of tight smiles–and it dates back to the total shock it must have been for her as a newlywed to have me show up saying “hi, i’m justin’s daughter!”  i sympathize.  i really do.

i sat at the dining room table.  she woke justin and an argument ensued between them, with each hushing the other as  if they believed i couldn’t hear.  she wanted me out of there. right then. it went beyond a desire to not sleep with a snorer.  and yes, i heard every word.

i felt rejected, belittled, demeaned, and exactly like a three year old who doesn’t understand why she can’t go home again.  to her real home.  why she has to be thrown away, because that’s what adoption meant to me.

and i would have left right then, walked out of the apartment and said “good luck to you guys”  but i was scared of leaving my dad.  she went to work.  i sat on the couch with him.  i said “this is exactly the horrible feeling that makes me want a drink.”  and he said “me too” and he got up, went to the refrigerator and we drank two beers.  it was nine thirty, alcohol, a little early wouldn’t you say?  but you were there for me.  and for him.

but that feeling, that wretched feeling followed me out of florida, back to illinois, everywhere i am, everywhere i go.  rejected, belittled, a failure, a wreck.  i’ve lost friendships, i’ve lost the respect of people i respect, i’ve lost love–the very things i have always wanted but you’re always there, aren’t you?  ready to console me.  ready to tell me it’s all right.   ready to tell me i’m pretty and witty and funny and i mean something.  and you keep saying you’ll never never leave me and i thought that was a good thing. what i’ve always wanted to hear.

but coming from you, maybe it’s not such a good thing.

i’ve tried breaking up with you before.  white knuckling it.  alcoholics anonymous.  a chinese acupuncturist who also threw in a few extra needles that were supposed to make me lose weight in addition to sobering me up.  nothing worked.  you always came back and always when i really need you and can’t resist you.

this time i’m getting outside help.  i’m scared.  i’m crying right now as i write this.  you have been a reliable friend.  but i can’t do this anymore.  i’m breaking up with you.

and really, it’s not you.  it’s me.

when i made a new years resolution to meet all my facebook friends, i met quite a few who have made the same decision, who have had the breakup talk with you.  some have been successful.  some not so much.  some have done it on their own.  some have needed what i’m about to do.  i hope all my facebook friends, all my friends, all my family can understand.  alcohol, i never meant for our relationship to be so . . . monogamous.

my biological mother gave me this picture when she met me. alcohol, this was a gal with promise and potential and i want to get that back.

 

 

 

 

 

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March 23, 2012

a puzzling end to a facebook friend’s visit and i revisit the lexapro issue

By arlynnpresser

what a wonderful afternoon get together! thank you f2fb friend #307 tony adams with my father justin. tony is a wonderful friend and wanted us to try something special for lunch.

my father justin (f2fb friend #30) flew in from tallahassee this monday and planned to stay for a week and a day.  we had dinner with f2fb friend #306 oj dorson and justin made chicken l’orange in honor of the occasion.  the next day, we had lunch with f2fb friend #307 tony adams and then there was the fire. . . .

i went to sleep that night thinking that the visit with justin was going very well.  i had a brunch planned for sunday morning in his honor.  we were going to the movies to see the artist. then i woke at four o’clock in the morning with a migraine.

for those of you who don't know what a migraine feels like, imagine this cute blue dude having some fun with hammer, nails and your brain.

i didn’t come downstairs until seven where i found justin had already packed.  he said his wife barbara had a dinner that evening and wanted him to return home to join her.  he had already called the airlines and rebooked a flight for that afternoon to atlanta and then in the evening a flight from atlanta to tallahassee.  it seemed puzzling to me.  i felt uneasy.  i felt rejected.  i felt, and still feel, that i must have done something to offend either justin or his wife and it’s just a matter of me not knowing what it is.

feeling rejected is a good excuse for a pajama day. which includes pajamas, self-loathing, a paperback, television, domino's pizza and wine and going to bed at eight o'clock. this time i left out the pizza and wine.

i was proud that i didn’t call domino’s, prouder that i didn’t drink white wine.  i still have a migraine.  i still wasted time on hulu.com, went to bed at eight o’clock and never got out of my pajamas. . . but this morning, i’m back together except for the bedhead.  the temporary rules of my life are back in force:  work out every day, take a shower, no going to bed at eight o’clock.  otherwise. . . .

i have a prescription for lexapro which is sitting unopened on my kitchen counter. i really don't want to do this but some doctors believe anxiety disorder and agoraphobia are only controllable with antidepressants. including mine.

 

 

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