Rejection

About a month ago, I applied to be a part of the Black Box Residency program for writers on campus. I waited anxiously, and yesterday found out that I was not accepted. In order to apply, I was required to share my works to be reviewed. This news has made me question a few things about myself, and I don't like it. Part of my identity is knowing that I'm a pretty good writer. I love to write. That's become part of who I am. It started in 2014 when I started to write instead of sitting in a therapist's office to talk. Writing helped me heal, and helped me find an outlet.

Since then, the pattern has continued. I started this blog, hoping to be able to show anyone who reads that things do get better in time. I use myself as a prime example that brokenness is mendable through Christ. Along with this blog, I write poems. The poems aren't as uplifting. Quite frankly, they're depressing. But they do help me stay in touch with how I'm feeling. I write to process new feelings and help process old ones that resurface. Whether it's new wounds, or old scars, I write about both with the confidence that I am not alone in my feelings or in this world.

I sent in poems for this application, and now I'm not sure how great they actually are. If these judges or whoever is reading my application, didn't like them, does anyone really? I have a pipe dream to publish a book full of poems one day. But would anyone actually read it?

This rejection has suddenly made my self esteem and self confidence drop heavily. And I'm not sure how to process that. As a person, I need validation from others to believe that I'm important, and I am convinced that as a writer, I need that too. I need someone else to believe in my words. Anyways, here are some of them.

I am a survivor.

I have yet to survive poverty

Nor hunger, abuse, or a bed-less home

I call myself a survivor

Because I escaped

Almost on my own

I have yet to survive a hurricane

Through tornados plenty

Swirling through my brain

They drowned me in sorrows

But who would’ve known

That the things I told myself

Were worse than a torn-down home

I have yet to survive a burial

Six feet under is a long way to go

But climbing back up

That’s not one to be known

Anxiety is the grave

Pulling me in limb by limb

Oh, how I almost let him win

I have yet to survive treatment

That takes the hair off your head

Though sitting in therapy,

Trying not to wish to be dead

Hard work, the painful talks

Never a tear shed

Though I relearned how to walk with God

And all He had to say

He told me that I could make it a few more days

I have yet to witness a miracle

Though I’d say living is one to tell

The thoughts didn’t win

They took a bus to hell

Along with my negativity, internal bruises, and years of pain

I’d say to wish them well, yet they left a stain

I have yet to witness a survivor

Without a story to tell

Whether it be cancer, abuse, or poverty

I hope we stand to yell

Yell at the world

Yell out our strength

“I am a survivor”