Content warning: this article will discuss reactions to negative situations which some readers may find distressing/triggering.
It’s taken me a few weeks to feel physically and emotionally ready to talk on here about a recent distressing experiece. After two years of repeatedly closing doors, I was suprised to receive an email in April this year from a Yorkshire based university, saying that I had been shortlisted for an PhD candidate interview, and would I like to go ahead with it?
I had filled in an application for this university a long time before, but presumed, as I hadn’t been contacted, that it was one of those rejections I hadn’t been informed about (I had suffered this treatment from another university, so I guessed it might be the norm for some places to do this), and had worked very hard to tuck this assumed-to-be-unsuccessful application away, with the others, in the box in my mind marked Caution: Do Not Ever Open Again, Ever, Ever.
Would I like to go ahead with the interview? My first and strongest instinct was to say no. No, no, no, no, no. Absolutely not. I was thrown into turmoil. It has taken all the strength I had (and almost, almost didn’t have) to find a way of moving forward, out of the fatigue, mental and physical trauma, distress, anger, frustration, heartbreak, confusion and self-hatred that were the result of the debilitating years of trying to find an academic place to belong.
Six rejections from six institutions already. Hadn’t I punished myself enough? Hadn’t I been punished enough? I had been working really hard on fooling myself into believing I had managed to stamp this dream of mine into the dust. I had been brittle, desperate and extremely ill. Like a flicker of distant light, I had somehow come up with the idea of The University of the Self, here on Substack and it has helped me so much to move forward through the trauma.
It has given me something to work towards, something to think about. It has given me new focus. It has acted as a positive distraction. It has kept me thinking about progressing in learning. It has encouraged me to seek new experiences. It has soaked up much of my surplus writing energy. It has made me feel as if my ideas are connecting me to other people in a positive way. It has offered stability, and allowed me room to express and share my ideas. It is my safe and welcoming echo chamber. Why would I risk spoiling all this now? Why would I risk any further damage to my health?
But what if this time, by some miracle, they decided I was good enough? What if this time, I was accepted, and all my dreams came true? Was this, attempt number seven, to be my lucky number, my last-minute saviour, my ray of light, my validation? If I said no to the interview, I would be left guessing forever what my future might have been, if only…if only… What a dilemma to be in. I didn’t tell anyone except for one very trusted friend. I asked for their advice. They reminded me of how far I had come in recovering myself with The University of the Self. They reminded me that, no mater what the outcome, I had made this place, in which I could find happiness. In the end, the decision was up to me and the more I thought about it, the more tiny seeds of hope began to sprout in my heart.
I emailed back and said yes to the interview, though I was still very conflicted about doing so. The interview was set for the 18th April, twenty days hence. I was also informed that, if I wanted to apply for funding, I had only ten days to fill in the forms. My world turned upside down. I had been to open days at universities before, and each had emphasised how these funding forms could take months to fill in. How could my application for funding not be compromised by such a brief timescale? I felt I couldn’t do it, but I had no choice but to try. I threw myself into the mind-boggling whirl of both form filling, and preparation for the interview. I wrote page after page of quotes in support of each of my arguments. I wrote page after page of research upon the work and specialist areas of the team of three potential supervisors. I printed out twenty-five pages of work I had produced around my proposal. I surrounded myself with appropriate books. This is the place I set up for the interview, which was to take place online. I made myself as ready as I could.
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I was terribly nervous, but I talked, and talked, and talked about my ideas, about my reinterpretations, about my desire to work in new ways — ways that would open new avenues of accessibility in my chosen field of study. It seemed to be going so well, until they expressed doubts that I could do the work. My heart fell away from me. I told them I could do the work, that I could write essays, that I had no fear of interrogation of the self, that I lived for research, that I had endless passion for my subject, and for what it might mean for others. The interview seemed to suddenly become and endless loop in which I kept being asked if I could do the work, again and again, and in which I kept trying to explain that I could.
They asked my why I had not provided a reference from my previous university. I explained that my request for one simply had not been answered. Why? I don’t know. It made me look as if I was coming to them under false pretences, that there must ne a sinister reason I did not have the reference. I faltered, lost every shred of confidence.
It suddenly hit me that the fact that my previous place of study didn’t want me as a candidate should have been the surest sign that my mission would fail. If an institution knows you and still doesn’t want you, what chance have you got coming in cold to an unfamiliar place? My mindset right then told me that there was something wrong with me, something wrong with my ideas, something wrong with my ways of working, something wrong with everything about me. I broke inside, as I have never quite broken before on my academic journey.
The first two-thirds of the interview had seemed to be going so well. The last third seemed to descend into a Kafkaesque nightmare. The interview eventually ended, and for about an hour afterwards, I cried my heart out. For the rest of the day, I pretty much cried my heart out too. And I didn’t improve much over the week that followed.
Perhaps I had read the situation wrong. I tried to jolly myself along. I nursed as best I could the tiniest kindle of hope. I denied the inevitable, though in my heart I knew the inevitable. Five days later, I recieved a rejection email from one of the supervisors. The agony was unbearable. I cursed myself for the fool I was, allowing this to happen to me again. The Kafkaesque nightmare continued — three days after the rejection from the tutor, I recieved the University’s official rejection. Two days after that, I recieved an email welcoming me to that university’s disability services. A couple of weeks after that, I received a rejection from the funding application. At least, I tried to joke to myself, this university’s rejections are pretty thorough.
It is finally, finally over. I will carry the intense pain of my PhD application journey with me forever. I will always grieve for that version of myself that I will never truly know, but was beginning to sense — to imagine as a fuzzy shape that was beginning to come to life in my mind. I will never know her, or travel with her on her journey, I will never see her wear the funny hat and regalia. I will always be the one, out of her peers, who wasn’t good enough. What that ghost of me could have been, I will never know.
Hope can sometimes seem like the most dangerous thing. But without it, how do we go on?
But time moves us ever on. I have ended up at a place where I have finally written this confession to you all. I left it until the worst of the pain subsided. I worked on other things — I drew my pain into pictures; I celebrated the beauty of the world in a painting; I wrote other Substacks; I crept through some slow work on poems.
In part two, I am going to write about a renewal hope through being able to share my ideas with other people. Right now though, I wish you goodnight. It’s almost 1am and I must try to get some sleep — I think I will, now that I have shared with you and made, as the saying goes, a problem halved.
I hope you enjoyed reading my latest article. Thank you so much for spending some time here with me.
I have currently left my Substack free, but if anyone should feel like sending me a tip (although there is no pressure to do so) in exchange for my tips, you can ‘buy me a coffee’ here . Many thanks.
I must add the usual disclaimer here: I am not sponsored or paid by any of the websites I link to (I do this in an attempt to help others find information, and I may or may not agree/disagree with any/some of the content) — sharing does not immediately equal endorsment. I also hope I haven’t written anyting that might offend anyone. I try very hard to be as considerate and kind as possible.
You are brave, and strong, and every single word of this resonates. These people do not understand. You will continue to prevail, and you will continue to rise triumphant.
Thank you for sharing this. Please keep sharing <3
An awful experience, Jane. So brave to share it with us. Your poetry and art is fantastic, I loved your recent webinar, it communicated so much with me. Your Substack this morning made me so angry. Please put this pain behind you, you do not need Academia, your work shines.