Yesterday, my boss leaned over and said, “So, I’m not going to conduct your six-month review.”
“Or any other review.”
I thought for about three seconds that he was going to fire me (hey, my brain sucks).
“You’re now a permanent employee.”
I’m official. My probation period’s been ended two months early, and I’m a permanent employee of Rebellion! I’m officially a Junior Editor (although the Commissioning Editor is still determined to get rid of the Junior, which I think makes him feel like The Responsible Member Of The Editorial Team) and I did squeak. And nearly cried. And then got The Highest Of High Fives from my editorial colleague, a cup of tea from my boss, and a frankly terrifying editing project in my inbox…
(On which note, I did have a small panic over it. We’ve got some stories in from an author that I seriously admire: I took their books around the world with me, they are the author that I want to be when I grow up, I absolutely adore their style and worldbuilding and language, I know I will never be that good, and I have to tell them where their writing could be improved.
Hah. Ahahahaha. *goes off to cry in a corner*
My editorial colleague has expressed full support and it’s a serious level-up for me, so I’m going to do it and absolutely rock it, but…. *is mildly terrified*)
Anyway! Job. Editor. That thing.
It says a lot about my brain that a) I seriously thought I was going to get fired, b) I spent most of the afternoon in shock and it hasn’t sunk in yet, c) I got some annoying news (I’d made a typo on a project) and that promptly overshadowed the whole You Can Stay At Rebellion until I told my brain to get a grip, and d) it feels completely overwhelming.
And it’s a relief.
I spend so much of my time fighting my brain as it’s telling me I’m stupid, I’m not perfect, I’m doing everything wrong, I’m going to fail or already failing: and it’s wrong.
I can do this. I’m doing ok. They like me. I love this job, I love this team, I love reading and commenting and organising and deciding and laughing and just being able to be part of something so interesting, so exciting, so frustrating and wonderful. I love Oxford: I’ve found beautiful gardens, odd tucked-away houses and intricate carvings, elegant buildings and busy streets, gentle streams and wide rivers, fields of waving grass and built-up estates, and the red kites soaring overhead every morning. I’ve made so many good friends already and I’m making more; I’ve found a games group to play with every lunchtime, people to plot world domination with (while eating cake, obviously), someone to share burgers and Romans with, someone I can sing along to 90’s pop and talk about nothing or everything with, someone who is amazingly interesting and so intelligent that I feel stupid in the best way possible, and so many people that I’ve only just started making friends with…
It’s saying that it’s ok. This little fragment of stability that you’ve found in a beautiful city – you can keep it. You can add to it. It’s real.
It’s another layer of perfect gold across those cracks in my heart, another layer to the shield against the anxiety and the fear and the depression, another set of voices supporting me when I can’t do it on my own; and it’s wonderful.
I am absolutely, thoroughly grateful to everyone who has made my first few months in Oxford and my job so brilliant, and I have found my place*.
I can do this. I can.
*My anxiety promptly tried to qualify that. Shut the fuck up, brain. I know it won’t last forever: just be happy for five minutes, m’kay?