The dream job at the Bank of England arrived, an Economics research assistant at the one institution that decorated my CV and one I couldnât get enough of. I canât remember a time that I wanted something so badly more than that. 10 hours spent filling out the application form. Next round. Aced the numerical and logical reasoning test. One step closer. Squeezed through the Excel challenges, with a lil help from my friend Google. My excitement crescendoed. My heart pulsated as I walked to the interview room with the secretary. It was going remarkably well. I could taste the job offer on the tip of their tongue. Pause. My heart stopped pumping. My brain had a lapse. My tongue refused to move. A bead of sweat broke free and may have turned to ice judging by how quickly I had frozen. Stumped. Outfoxed, by a simple question. I mumbled something inaudible. My interviewer raised an eyebrow and scribbled animatedly. She had that, âyou were almost thereâ expression on her face. The right answer came to me, but it was too late to turn back. It haunted me throughout the rest of the interview. I wanted to rip my skull open, take my brain out, stare at it and scream WHY? My whole world crumbled in an instant. If you know my story, you know this isnât the first time. But Iâm an eternal optimist and thought this opportunity was in the palm of my hand. I was so broken beyond repair when the rejection email arrived. The most likely potential saving grace to rescue my disastrous year had been snatched away from my eyes. The last remaining drops of self-worth and confidence had been sapped away from me.
I was taking serious consideration to a temporary job at a factory. My life had hit rock bottom. I sat alone in my loft room for many days crying to myself at the cards destiny had dealt me. Friends would keep me company virtually, but they werenât to know the true extent of my pain. My brain said they saw me as junk, and I could feel the growing distance with some. Not all, they know who they are and my love for them is unconditional.
The arguments with family started increasing as frustration seeped out from both sides. They were only trying to help, my ego didnât see it that way. I didnât speak to my Dad for a few months, my sister and mother slightly less. Arguments started with friends who couldnât understand my solitude. I wanted to erase them all from my life. My determination to get a job dithered. Depression had won my soul from hope, and gripped on to it tighter everyday. I couldnât see a way out of the darkness as I cursed my fortune and regretted my decisions. I blamed the world. I hated the world. Fuck the world, and its roll of the dice choosing our paths. I wanted to turn back time, turn back to the point where the first part of me had shattered. 18 August 2010. Futile thoughts.
I slept a lot. I would go upstairs at 10pm and find myself struggling to wake until half 8 the next morning, not being ready until at least 10am everyday. I took afternoon naps increasingly for many hours, just passing time in between meals. I had nothing to look forward to apart from meals, except when Mum made some distastefully horrible shak. I took solace in fast food, guilty pleasures that no one knows about. My weight ballooned. All the hard gym work from the previous summer had washed away, but did I care? No, sir.
I stopped shaving regularly, often seen marauding with an unsightly beard. I wore black tracksuit bottoms all the time and even out of the house, the ultimate symbol of idgaf about life. I stopped believing in religion and everything it stands for, another victim of my feeling of betrayal. I couldnât look at myself in the mirror. My discipline had evaporated.
Staying trapped at home everyday had got to me. I snapped, and picked it up again. I registered everywhere. I broke the ice with Dad and we were rolling again. He had finally convinced me to do the one thing I had been avoiding all summer. I went to the DirectGov website and registered my details to sign-on.
As I went for my first appointment, I hated myself. I felt unclean. I felt people driving past and at the bus stop were sneering at me. I felt the attendant at the door was judging me as another hopeless scrounger. I didnât even want to sit down.
They were friendly, but my ego told me again I was better than this. I didnât want the money, it felt like corrupt money. I planned to give it all to my parents, I had no interest in hand-outs. The woman made it seem simple, but I felt tied up. Bless her, she was trying to help, but I knew from that very moment the only person who can truly help is me. At least I had accountability now.
It was quiet at first, as I waited patiently by my phone every morning for an email notification or a phone call. And then it all kicked off.
Recruitment consultants started calling regularly, they liked my CV and cover letters. I felt rejuvenated, like the moment you insert a charger into a mobile phone. They were dud calls, promising a position in finance but a little bit of reading showed it was actually a sales pyramid scheme. Someone had forgotten to flick the switch on for my charger. Flat battery.
From a barren spell, the calls became incessant and now I wasnât the one who was desperate. The persuasion tactics got even more ridiculous and for a while I had forgotten what career path I wanted. The promise of a job was alluring and I started ignoring at what cost it may be. It made me realise that I was always the desperate one all along, and my lack of confidence had brought me to this point.
It became downright farcical when I conducted an âinterviewâ in my bath towel kneeling over my bed, describing the wrong company and making up transparent lies on the spot - only to be told I had passed and was being invited for an assessment centre. By the time the woman had pointed out my âcute laughâ as a reason and thrusted her personal phone number onto me, I was well shot of her and her company. The phone calls and emails didnât rescind for several weeks, but in fairness it did turn out the firm they had put me forward for was a legitimate new financial company, which now has significant advertising all over the Tube and newspapers. It was even promoted by money saving expert Martin Lewis. Oops.
I didnât care, I had been invited for an interview somewhere more exciting the week after and this seemed more promising and had more legitimacy. I felt like I was on to something. Optimism overwhelmed me and visions kept coming of holding the title of âjunior private equity analystâ. Destiny woke up again and threw a speed bump at my feet. My mind was travelling too fast and careered off as it reached the bump. It was my worst interview ever. Ever. It was only my third interview, but it was so jarringly bad. I didnât even make it to 15 minutes before I found myself walking straight back through the revolving doors which had barely settled from when I had arrived. I looked up at the pillared, towering building with a resigned look of another opportunity squandered and broke down again. The top seemed very far away from where I was standing.
From impatience after believing it was going to be sooner rather than later, I had nothing. I kept being fed horror stories about turning out like someone we know who lived a life of lies to cover up their inability to secure employment. I could sense the underlying tension my parents were going through when their son, who had held the key to unlocking their dreams, that they had made many sacrifices for, had dropped it in the water and was scrambling around trying to find it as they looked on, disenchanted. I dropped my guard and welcomed stress into my mind.
I receded into my slump again. The long naps, the self-indulgence, the reclusive mood and general downbeat outlook on life returned. I just waited, but didnât know what I was waiting for.
I was beginning down another route, but I didnât know it yet. The job centre forwarded me to a graduate training programme, where I met a man named Dean Frederick. I name him because, along with my father, I credit him a lot for the support and confidence he instilled in me to not let something like the last interview happen again, and to believe in myself once more.
I saw him compulsorily for 2 days, but those hours were more fruitful and eye-opening than anything I had found on the Internet. I wasnât the only one in the same boat, I made friends there too. I had renewed vigour. He arranged to meet one-on-one for another interview which popped up.
It was a telephone interview. Sky. But they wanted me to move to Scotland. Hesitation. A job is a job, wherever it takes me. Dean prepared me well. My notes prepared me well. I was buzzing off my test aptitude which got me to this stage⌠My nerves didnât prepare me well. I was at the penultimate stage, but I felt the opportunity slipping from my hand like sand as the clock ticked on. Not again, not again - those desperate thoughts took control of my voice. I sat there clutching my phone for minutes after I hung up. A long, resigned breath and a forlorn look into the mirror.
Dean tried again. I still had another opportunity with Telefonica. A video interview. A combination of him and my Dad picked me up again. I was ready. The practise went well. The real one started well. The googly was delivered. I stuttered more than I should have, and said âummâ one too many times. I lost my cool and even dared a glance at my notes. Fuck sake. I just didnât know what to make of it.
Dean opened another door for me - he told me there was another way he could try. My ears pricked up. I had an interview with an agency consultant. He was happy with me. I was invited to sit tests. They were even more eager to work with me. It felt like I had been here before. He said some right words, I found myself signing a contract with them no sooner after.Â
It all went quiet for a while, it was Christmas time. I waited patiently. My practical-thinking Dad tried to make me be logical and keep my options open. I did so half-heartedly, but wanted to believe this dream sold to me. The job centre were running out of options with me apart from forcing me to take temp jobs, yet my advisor knew I was trying. It became a battle against time.
I breezed through another graduate scheme application as I got a hang of how to answer questions. It was with Unilever. I had passed their tests convincingly. They said they'd notify me of the next steps soon. I allowed myself to settle down a little. Other rejections and auto-responses kept piling through, but I still had this to keep me going. My hopes had found a new ledge to hold on to. They were taking an age. I was feeling good about this opportunity, even told another friend to chance his luck. My job centre advisor was encouraged by the signals given too. But then one Thursday evening, a WhatsApp message came through. It was a screenshot of an assessment centre invite for my friend. I was happy for him and my adrenaline rushed as I remembered to check my emails. Nothing. I pressed refresh. Still nothing. A thought crept into my mind that I hadn't got it, but I was talked out of thinking that. No news is good news, they said. That didn't help me sleep that night.
We were in Birmingham the next day for a family wedding. I hadn't seen these relations in six months. I popped out to the toilet after dinner at the pre-wedding celebrations. The response had arrived and was sitting in my inbox. I could feel my blood pumping furiously. I clicked on the message. My jaw dropped. Rejection. I read the email over and over. My head was spinning. The fingers of hope let go of the ledge and was falling into the dark, bottomless and lonely abyss, motionlessly. It felt like an atom bomb had been detonated inside me and it was creating a widening crevice in slow motion. I was in no state to come back out to a crowd. I looked in the mirror and finally understood what a face like thunder meant. I couldn't even hide it if I tried. It was fair to say that I didn't enjoy the rest of the wedding. I still wasn't ready to give up the fight and hope stood up again and dusted itself off.
It got to the new year and January. Still no news. My hope didnât waiver. There was little communication, but all there was was sufficient to keep me going. A call did arrive. It wasnât what I was looking for. I thought the agency had lied to me and couldnât deliver their promises for a minute. I held firm and they continued with the original plan. And then it started rolling again. An interview had been set up.Â
The agency bombarded me with information to prepare. I read everything I could find about the firm. I didnât look at my old notes or CV, I knew them well enough by then. I met the agency in person the day before my interview - I was more ready than I ever could have been.
I arrived half an hour before my interview. Canary Wharf. I stood by the fountains before pacing up to the large revolving doors with the firmâs metallic, embossed logo visible through them. This was it.
There was a hiccup with confirming my interview at reception. I was left sitting for half an hour. My interviewer arrived, recognisable from my LinkedIn research prior. A firm handshake and welcome through the barriers by the security guard, accompanied by polite conversation on the way up to the higher floors.
I was ushered into the room where my second interviewer sat waiting, and involuntarily gawped at the spectacular view of London. The interview had begun, but mentally I didnât feel like I was in one. I was surprisingly calm. I played to my strengths - turning a conversation on to the other person. It felt like a normal conversation. The answers came to me easily, but it was like having a chat with friends. There wasnât enough time to continue talking. I felt like I could keep going. They both showed me to the lifts. I thought that was a good sign.
The positive energy flowed through me as I walked back out and relayed my experience to my Dad and agency contact. She said sheâd let me know if I had made it through to the second interview soon. A few years ago this was my dream location to build a career, but I hadnât dared think of it again till then. I was beaming, but pessimism and history levelled me by the time I reached home.Â
3.30pm. I was just about to leave for the gym. My phone rang - it was the agency. My consultant joked about the irony that this was the first time I had picked up her call without having to ring her back. I awaited with bated breath at the feedback she had received. I prayed inside that my luck would change. Haha, my faith suddenly resurfaced then. But I wasnât ready to comprehend her next sentence.
Youâve got the job, she said. It didnât register. They were so impressed that they donât want to do a second interview, she said. It still didnât register. She repeated it again. I was stunned. Words I yearned to hear for months, but sounded so foreign to me when they were spoken. I lost count of the times I said thank you.
I put the phone down and burst into my Dadâs room. He was just about settling for his afternoon nap. What happened, he asked. He had that look of being prepared for disappointment, one which twinged inside me that I was the cause of it. I broke the news. It didnât register. Dad canât hear properly at the best of times, but it definitely wasnât that. The tiredness left him as he gleamed and rejoiced whilst embracing me tightly when I told him again. Tears streamed down his face as he looked to God and thanked him. Tears shuttled to my lips as well at the look of pure happiness my Dad had plastered across him. I felt contentedness, a sensation that I lost a long, long time ago but it felt good to remember it. I hate crying, but it felt like our stress had finally realised it had exploited our hospitality, that it had overstayed its welcome and was making for an apologetic exit from our eyes. We were jubilant.
Pharrellâs song came on the radio as I drove to the gym. How appropriate. I turned the volume up and wound the windows down. I clapped my hands because thatâs what I wanted to do. I felt like that room without a roof that he was in.Â
I didnât tell Mum and my sister till the official confirmation arrived 3 days later that I was starting the following Wednesday - 5 February 2014. It was difficult to hold out for so long, but some things mithai explain better than words. My Mum bawled her eyes out - the one thing that always gets me going without fail. My sister was chill lol, but she offered a hug which tells me she was happy. She never gives hugs.Â
92 applications, including 24 graduate scheme applications. 56 still waiting for responses. 18 unsuccessful with the number of rejections increasing even more recently - I laugh about them as I read their new, well-thought out replies on my commute home now. 11 numerical and logical tests. 30 jobcentre appointments. 12 job agencies registrations. 3,430 emails. 18 CV drafts. 15 cover letter templates which I poured my heart and soul into. A whole day spent trudging around the streets of Canary Wharf trying to sneak past security guards at all the banks and slip my CV through quietly, with only one acknowledgement out of five. 2 job fairs. 4 job forums trawled religiously. 43 questions of âhave you got a job yet?â 6 friendsâ birthdays missed. 4 friendsâ meet-ups missed. Inconceivable numbers of lies and half-truths told, inconceivable numbers of secrets kept.
8 months, 5 days. 250 days. 6,000 hours. 360,000 minutes. Just over two-thirds of a year. Just waiting.
Two-thirds of a year of pain and heartache, fluctuations and frustrations. Two-thirds of a year of promises and false promises, hopes and disappointments. Two-thirds of a year of preparation and nerves, the fights and depression, the battling and perseverance. But it had happened. It was such a mellow day.Â
The long road to success and fortune begins with a footstep. A footstep that no one else can take for you, but a firm footstep that you should only take when you're certain you're walking on the best path for you. Fortune is always hiding, it will never come to you unless you relentlessly chase after it.
In the immortal words of Aaliyah and ones that should never be forgotten - if at first you donât succeed, dust yourself off and try again.
