Page 62 of Tilly in Technicolor
“I… uh…”
“Oh, Tilly, youmustapply. You’d be perfect. We’re texting you the link right now.”
Sure enough, my phone buzzes with the application website. I scroll through it for a moment, reading the editorial assistant job description.
“I’m not sure I’m qualified for this,” I say.
“Oh my God, literally who’s qualified for any job anymore? You need ten years of experience for an entry level job at this point. Please apply, Tilly, please! You’d be so perfect for it.”
“So perfect,” Cubby echoes. “We’re your biggest fans at this point. We’re not above stealing your identity to submit an application on your behalf.”
My head feels like it’s full of bumblebees buzzing around my skull as I try to process everything.
Is this… Is this what having friends feels like? People who encourage you so unabashedly? It’s overwhelming in the best possible way.
I’m scared. So scared. It’s basically a guaranteed rejection, I’m a nobody with absolutely zero experience.
And yet…
“Okay,” I whisper, then smile. “I’ll apply.”
Cubby and Darcy screech. “Perfect. I’ll text Hamda to text her cousin to be on the lookout for your application. Do it today! Right now, if you can.”
“Okay,” I say again, my smile growing.
“Okay, we’ve got to run, Tilly,” Cubby says. “Give our love to Ollie.”
“I will,” I say. “And, thank you—so much—for thinking of me. I’m really excited.”
We end the call and I duck into a café, ordering a coffee and a pastry called kanelbullar, which looks a bit like a cinnamon roll but somehow tastes even better.
Grabbing a tiny table in the corner, I pull out my laptop, gulp my coffee, and, before I can overthink it, fill out the application. I submit samples of my writing, taking a risk and submitting some of my more vulnerable pieces about ADHD. I probably rush through it way too fast, my leg bouncing the entire time, but I want to get it over with, out of my way, before the doubt can fill me up too deeply.
When it’s done, I take a deep breath. I feel kind of… proud of myself. Like I just did something proactive. Something good.
But I don’t want to think about it anymore. If I start to want it too much, it will hurt all the more when a rejection comes in.
Pushing away those thoughts, I open a new tab, take another deep breath, and free-fall onto a fresh, blank page.
A few hours later, I’ve drunk enough caffeine and eaten enough kanelbullar that I feel my heartbeat in my toenails. I tap out the final lines of my blog post, then collapse back in my worn leather chair to read the final few paragraphs:
I’ve always thought my sister was perfect. That perfection was woven into her DNA like her black hair or brown eyes. She fits into every space she enters.
And, I’ve always thought messing up was the backbone of my genetic makeup. I have ADHD. My brain doesn’t work like everyone else’s. It always feels like my brain and body are being asked endless, probing questions, and they don’t have an answer for any of them. I can’t process them. And society tells us that means I’m doomed from the start. That my brain’s unique way of functioning is a personality flaw. A lack of discipline. No spaces accommodate me, and I don’t deserve to disrupt the room and carve out my own spot.
But maybe that’s not true. It sure as hell isn’t fair. My sister shouldn’t have the burden of being expected to dominate every task she attempts. I shouldn’t bear the weight of being labeled a screwup before I even try.
So, what if we tear down these boxes we’re supposed to squeeze ourselves into? What if we undo the knots that keep us tied to expectations? What if we let each other, and ourselves, just be?
P.S. These are genuine questions. Ya girl doesn’t have the answers, sooo…
P.P.S. This post was fueled by way too many cups of coffee from Drop Coffee Roasters… This isn’t a sponsored ad or anything (yet), but we all gotta manifest those dreams, amiright?
I smile.
I really like what I wrote.
I guess I don’t realize how heavily some words sit in my heart, and I forget that my hands can lift that weight by clacking away on a keyboard. Writing my feelings doesn’t take them away, but it gives them another space to be held. A spot I can leave or revisit as I need to.
