So things got off to a very rocky start at the new job as I mentioned before. I was pretty much told that I wasn’t doing a good job, and was not meeting the standards and expectations of the position after two weeks. Yes, after two weeks I was told that I don’t fully understand my job. To which I say, well who does? With this information, I decided ok maybe I should work harder to show my commitment and dedication to the company. I started taking home my notes to study at night and on the weekends. I came in at least an hour early to look over things and get a head start on the day. After a few weeks I felt confident that I was doing better. Things were making sense and coming together well. So imagine my surprise when my boss told me once again during my 30 day review that I am still not up to par.
She looked at me with a smile and kindly told me that I am just not a good fit for the position (among other things). At the end of her ripping me a new one she said: take the weekend to decide if you want to come back here. Never have I been talked to so condescendingly in my life. I handled her criticism with as much poise and humility as I could. My stilettos clicked louder than I’ve ever heard them click before on the floor as I left her office and headed to my desk to gather my things. I could feel everyone staring at me as I’m sure they knew what had taken place. I barely made it over the threshold of the building before I burst into tears on my phone to my best friend. I haven’t cried like that in years. Anger, embarrassment, feelings of failure, and inadequacy overwhelmed me. I lost all composure, and let out an audible cry that came out so strong that I started to shake as I told her what happened. The walk from 11th to 7th Avenue has never felt so long. The cold breeze from the Hudson dried my tears almost as fast as they fell down my cheeks and made streaks in my makeup.
I snapped the closure to my fur lined hood in hopes that it would hide my struggle from the people walking by. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, which is odd for a city known for its fast pace. Is this real? Is this really happening to me? My bestie in her usual fashion asked me a series of questions I was not prepared to answer. Among them was if I had considered moving back home to Atlanta. That question snapped me out of my sadness and somewhere between 7th and 8th Avenue I went into survival mode. I text my most resourceful friend here, Nikki. I gave her the tea on what took place with my manager, and true to form she text and emailed me a bunch of contacts to reach out to. I started going through my mental rolodex of who I could contact. How can I make the money I have last? How much do I have for rent? By when do I need to have something else secured to sustain me in New York?
I got on the Q train to head home and in the most dramatic fashion I blasted some Drake through my earphones, and I got motivated. I stopped at my favorite Jamaican spot in Newkirk Plaza on the way, and made a mental game plan while I waited in line. The line is always jumping there so I had a good minute to figure things out. I called other friends that work in corporate America and asked for advice. Their response was unanimous: don’t quit. I spent the weekend with friends trying to psych myself up to go back in to work on Monday.