Eleven years ago, round about now, I found out that all my PGCE applications had been rejected. Until then, people were bored of hearing my anxiety around them. Those who had seen me work with children, seen my CV, could, they said, not imagine that my application would be unsuccessful. But it was. Already in the grips of depression at the time, I was left devastated, in a suicidal heap.
So – as people now offer assurance that I will get into TC, I am not comforted – but terrified. I’ve heard those words before. And it’s not a certainty. I have no idea whether staff will vote me in or out tomorrow. They’ve been silent – neither encouraging nor prohibiting my case conference.
I am terrified because nothing else has ‘worked’. Not counselling, nor CBT and its cousins, nor medication, which solely functions to stop me acting on the suicide ideation that incessantly interrupts my thoughts.
I am exhausted with fear of what is ahead. Reading week has meant zero visits to London last week, yet I haven’t slept properly. My emotions are running riot again. I want to tear myself to ribbons – to cut and cut and cut with the self-hatred coursing through me, but if I do cut, I won’t be accepted, de facto.
A few months after not getting onto a PGCE course, I was offered a PhD studentship – without applying for it. And that has turned into the best. thing. ever. Most of all because I *teach* students – and different groups of children, too – and see the understanding in their eyes time and again and again.
But I can’t see a better option than getting into the TC. As far as I know there isn’t one. But that makes my TC application the same as the PGCE one. I couldn’t see a better option then, either.
No amount of worrying is going to change this. But it’s so hard not to worry over it. I wish I could let go, trust more. One more day to go.