Isabella of Angouleme, queen of king John

 Queen Isabella was ripe for romance. She was a passionate woman in her late twenties, a striking beauty with plaited blonde hair. Furthermore, she had endured the loveless marriage with Edward since she was thirteen.

Roger de Mortimer, 8th Baron of Wigmore, was serving a life sentence in the Tower. His hair had grown long, his cheeks pale, and his eyes glowed with desperation. One glance at the handsome prisoner was enough to strike romantic interest in Isabella. It is not difficult to believe that the queen, her emotions stirred by the prisoner’s dark eyes, had made an opportunity to see him.

On the night of August 1 it was customary for the prison guards to celebrate the feast of St. Peter with food and drink. This time, the drink was drugged by the sub-lieutenant of the guards, Alspaye. When all the guards had fallen into a stupor, Mortimer dug a hole in the side of his cell. Accompanied by Alspaye, Mortimer made his way over the walls with a rope ladder. They rode through the night, pausing only to change horses and sailed directly to the French court where Isabella’s brother, Charles the Fair now reigned.

The next year, after overhauling her wardrobe Isabella sailed for France. A parade through the streets of Paris was held in her honor. She was probably the most beautiful sight the people of Paris had ever seen, her billowing black satin gown spread over a magnificent steed, her white boots firm in the gilded stirrups, her blonde hair flowing free and clasped with bands of jeweled gold. The French proudly cheered and commented on what a fool Edward must be to let such a gem waste away. When she entered her brother’s court, she looked into the eyes of Charles’ guest, Roger de Mortimer. The two fell hopelessly in love at first glance.

It soon was apparent that all was a well laid plan by Isabella. Charles had demanded that Edward come to France to pay homage as his vassal if he were to be allowed to keep Aquitaine and Ponthieu. The Dispensors counseled Edward to stay home, saying it would be unwise of him to leave the kingdom. Isabella had come up with the counter suggestion that she go in his stead, thus making an excuse for her to return to France. Once in France, she refused to return, complaining bitterly of her treatment by Edward and claiming her very life was threatened by Hugh the Dispensor. She wrote her husband and suggested that he confer the title of Duke of Aquitaine upon their son Prince Edward and send him to pay homage to Charles. With the consent of the Dispensors, Prince Edward joined his mother in France.

Meanwhile, in her love affair with Roger de Mortimer, Isabella threw caution to the wind. Her behavior became so indiscreet that one of the bishops that accompanied young Edward to France decided that Edward must know the truth. He stole away and back to England despite Isabella’s attempt to block his departure.

Edward, for his part, handled the situation well. He was told that Mortimer was the reason the queen stayed in France. He wrote letters to Isabella, attempting to persuade her back, but defended his precious Dispensors and made no promise to change. He referred to her enemy, Hugh Dispensor, as his loving Nephew Hugh. “Come back on my terms,” he wrote, “and I will forgive you.”

Finally, with no response from Isabella, Edward sent copies of all the letters he had written to Isabella to both her brother Charles and the pope. The pope was furious over Isabella’s adulterous conduct and demanded of Charles that he send his sister back to Edward or face the excommunication of the entire nation. Charles told his sister that the time had come for her to leave. Robert of Artois came to Isabella in the middle of the night and told her that her brother planned to hand them over to Edward the next day. In the middle of the night the two lovers made their way to Normandy and out of the reach of both kings.

Isabella conducted a campaign through western Europe seeking support for her enterprise. She became the most charming woman the courts of Europe had ever seen, subtly dressed in a new fashion of very full skirts, and tight bodice. Every knight she met seemed to fall in love with her. Her following grew like a rolling snowball. Mor- timer, for his part, followed meekly in the background and the rumors that surrounded the pair began to subside with the queens sudden rise to prominence and discretion.

After a stormy passage over the Channel, Isabella and her small army of mercenaries and foreign knights arrived on English soil. A few young knights set about making a shack for their fair damsel to spend the night. They used some wreckage found on the beach and four carpets. The queen beamed to them a weary smile of gratitude.

55025_edward-ii_mdFor Edward, the question was what to do. He knew that the people of London loved Isabella, yet he expected them to rally to their king. A compromise was reached with the mayor. No foreign troops would be allowed into London, but no Londoner would venture further than a mile from the city limits.

Edward needed more than this. He decided to push further west where he thought the citizens would be more faithful to him. He left the Tower in the hands of Hugh’s wife, Alianore, and left for Bristol. The people of London immediately dropped their stance of neutrality and rallied behind Isabella. The bishop who had brought the news of her affair to the king was dragged through the streets and beheaded. Alianore, fearing for her life, abandoned the tower to the mobs.

For Edward, the question was what to do. He knew that the people of London loved Isabella, yet he expected them to rally to their king. A compromise was reached with the mayor. No foreign troops would be allowed into London, but no Londoner would venture further than a mile from the city limits.

Baron after baron joined Isabella as she marched toward London at the head of her troops. The king found nowhere to hide and none to support him. Bristol was filled with fervor for the queen and they surrendered the castle at once. The senior Dispensor was given over to Isabella. He was taken out and hanged on the spot. After running for several months, the king was caught on November 16 with the sorry remnants of his party, including Hugh the Dispensor. Nephew Hugh was taken to Bristol and surrendered to the queen.

imagesThe queen began her triumphant march to London. Hugh was made to ride a sway- backed, mangy, small horse. He refused to eat or drink and became steadily weaker. Not to be robbed of her revenge the queen halted the procession to try him at Hereford. His sentence read:

“Hugh, all the good people of the kingdom, great and small, rich and poor, by common assent, do award that you are found as a thief and therefore shall be hanged, and are found as a traitor, and therefore shall be drawn and quartered; and that you have been outlawed by the king and by common consent, and returned to the court without warrant, you shall be beheaded; and for that you abetted and procured discord between king and queen, and others of the realm, you shal be embowelled and your bowels burned; and so go to your judgment attainted, wicked traitor.”

Hugh was dressed in a black gown, a crown of nettles placed on his head, and the prescribed sentence was carried out before the queen.

Isabella was welcomed back to London by cheering mobs. Women threw flowers in her path. She was hailed as the savior of England. Edward was summoned and forced to abdicate the throne in favor of his eldest son, Edward III, the fair-haired, handsome son of his mother. Isabella had expected to reign as regent, but her plans were foiled when a council was appointed to rule in her stead. Isabella was bitterly disappointed.

Eventually, Isabella, blinded with her love for Mortimer, was to make some great mistakes. She decided to be regent after all, with or without the consent of counsel. Mortimer rose in position much like Hugh the Dispensor.

Edward was imprisoned, and some months later three men held him down in the middle of the night while another burned his inner organs out with a heated iron. The red-hot iron was inserted through the anus so as not to mark the body and make it appear as though he had died of natural causes. Edward’s screams were heard throughout the castle for many hours. People nearby placed their pillows over their heads to drive away the sickening sounds.

Thus ended the reign of Edward II, King of England, and the life of Hugh the Dispensor.

– From the book FROM TRIBES TO NATIONS, by Kenneth Harper Finton

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©2014 Kenneth Harper Finton

Warning: This is a story from 1961. It contains words and actions that can easily offend. It is a slice of time that was typical to most every small city in America. In the sixties, real estate brokers purposely brought blacks into all white neighborhoods to drive the prices down so they could get a bargain price for the homes, then sell to blacks that were hungry for homes of their own in a decent neighborhood, The practice was called “blockbusting”. Though it was illegal, the real estate agents made a common practice of telling the people in a neighborhood that members of a different race were moving into the neighborhood. It would depress and deflate the value of their property. The agents then sold the devalued homes to the minority group and gained a huge profit. 

Across the street in the cool of dusk it came, absorbed in the dirty air with the fumes from the refinery, the exhaust vapors and the laundry lint. A song in the twilight, a gentle ballad of people forgotten except in song – sung with the grace and feeling of a girl who has known life and the odious emotions of men.

Harry Johnson sat at the table sipping his coffee as the song slipped through the open window to his ears. He called to his wife with the voice of a bear, but entwined with the song it was the voice of a lamb. He didn’t notice the coffee stained table and the barren floor, the curtainless window and the peeling paint. He listened to the song, each painful note slapping his ears, the melancholy words playing on his upper lip.

His wife Marge was a big-hipped woman and the floorboards creaked as she entered the kitchen. “What now?” she asked.

Harry Johnson looked at his wife – her hair, once wind-swept lovely – was done up in a twisted knot, her face, once painted up with care, ashy and melted. 

“That song.” he said. “Where does that song come from?” he asked, pointing to the window. 

“How should I know? Am I supposed to he a mind reader or something?”

“It sounds like it comes from across the street,” Harry said.

“Might be. I heard we were getting new neighbors. It’s about time, too. It hasn’t been rented since the Talberts moved out.”

“Listen to the song,” he said. She listened with a wrinkle in her brow as the song blew in the window window with the sounds of passing cars, listened until it stopped and the sounds of the street were the only sounds.

“She’s got a good voice,” Harry said.

“She must be young,” his wife said. “No more than fifteen, l’d say.”

“It sure carries,” Harry said. “All the way over here from across to street and it sounded like she might have been sitting here at our own table.” 

“You could have bought that house, you know,” Marge said. “How would you like to be raised up in this place like Carolyn? How would you like it if you didn’t have a yard or trees or a house where you could stretch out and live? You could have given us something decent to live in for once. You could have bought that house, Harry.”

Harry’s face reflected thoughts and longings that ran deeper than his mind. “I know,” he said in a husky voice.

The cool of the evening was streaming in the window. “It’s probably the night that makes her voice carry,” Marge said, sensing Harry’s feelings. “Voices carry along towards night.”

“That must be it,” Harry said.

But now the song is gone and Harry notices the coffee-stained table and the drabness of the room. He was glad that it was Friday. 

“Tonight’s bowling night,” he said. “Where’s my ball?” 

“In the closet.”

Harry knew that the ball was in the closet. He always know where it was, yet every Friday evening be would ask, “Where’s my ball, for that was the way he asked if he could go bowling; and every Friday evening Marge would say, “In the closet,” for that was the way she would tell him he could go.

He went to the closet and picked up the brown canvas bag that felt heavy and worn in his big hands. He slipped on his jacket, for the night air would be cool. After he was gone he looked back at his apartment from the shadowed street, then looked over at the house across the street – the house he should have bought. It felt good to be away from the apartment. 

* * *

Harry Johnson saw his three friends waiting for him at the intersection. There was no use catching a bus for is was only seven blocks to the bowling lanes and it certainly was a fine night. 

He was glad to get away, glad to leave the apartment. He had always felt like a prisoner there with the dingy rooms and the burdensome voices and the evening when there was no peace. He would have bought the house across the street, but the neighborhood was becoming shabby and Harry was afraid he would lose if he invested.

“Hello, Harry.” 

“We’ve been waiting.” 

“Hello, Art, Dick. Joe.” 

They walked down the street toward the lanes. Art Richard was a tall man, half a cracker thin. He held his hands against his sharp and jutting chin. “Hear the news?” he asked. 

“What news?” 

“About the new neighbors.” 

“Across the street?” Harry asked. 

“Oh, you know then.” 

“Know what?” 

“They’re niggers.”

Harry looked hard at the tall man with the sharp chin and a mouth that spoke lies. “That’s nothin’   to joke about,” he said. 

Their strides quickened as though they wanted to leave a place where dirt and scum flowed into the gutter. “Moved in today,” Dick Marcus said. “A whole family of them.The nigger’s got a wife and two kids.” 

“It can’t be,” Harry said. 

“The whole neighborhood will go next.” Art Richards said, “I saw it happen over on 42nd Street. One nigger moved in and the rest started to come. It won’t be safe to step outside if we let them stay.”

“That’s a fact,” Dick Marcus said.

“We can’t let them get away with it. We gotta drive them out.”

“The way I look at it, we don’t have any choice,” Dick Marcus said. “We have our families to protect. Don’t you think so, Harry?”

Harry was thinking of a little Negro girl with a dark face, a song floating from clipped white teeth into the dark of night. “Sure,” he said. “Sure. It’s the only way.” 

None of the men bowled well that night. There were plans to make and wrongs to right. As the balls spun down the alleys and the pins clattered and the beer foamed in their throats, they talked.

After the match they stopped at the bar. Their voices stilled and they were silent. The bartender’s bald head glistened with as he asked them what was wrong. Still, they were silent.

Then they walked down the street. The night air was getting cooler. Art Richards pulled the zipper on his jacket clear up to his pointed chin, but the chill stayed in his spine. The city was enveloped with a hush that could only be surpassed by the silence that hung over a little town called Bethlehem, so far away and so many centuries ago. With the silence came a fear that that sliced the night.

Harry Johnson felt the fear, felt it crawling is his spine, felt it twisting is his stomach, felt its  macerations in his knees.

“Isn’t anyone going to do it?” he yelled. “Here, should I throw the first stone?” 

He picked up a stone from the deep, silt-filled gutter and hurled it with all his might. The crash of breaking glass slapped his ears. He dropped his arms and his mouth hung open wide. Suddenly, everyone was throwing rocks and stones end shouting curses, yet the house stayed dark and quiet. The air was heavy with an oppressive blackness. 

After it as all over, Harry Johnson stood at his kitchen window in his underwear looking out across the street at to house that he should have bought. He saw the yawning blackness and the broken panes, noticed that there was one window still unbroken, one window reflecting the twisting flames of the burning cross.


Tomorrow morning came as tomorrow mornings have a habit of doing. The untried light from the liquid sun found four men standing at a bus stop, waiting. Thee refinery was to run overtime today. The four men men were happy to make some extra money for themselves and their families.

Art Richards whispered – for he didn’t want the world to hear, “We sure got them last night, didn’t we?”

No one said a word.

“They had it comin’. Just wait ’til tonight if they’re still there.” 

“I don’t know if I want to do it again,”Joe Gantner said. 

“For Chrissake,” Harry said. “You don’t want your kids to grow up with a nigger for a neighbor, do you?”  

The words came out of Harry’s mouth, but he did not know why. 

“No, but still…” 

“Still hell,” Art Richards said. “We’ve got to get rid of them, that’s all.”

The bus came out of the morning and the four men went to work.

That evening after the factories closed and the men poured out like ants from their threatened castle. Harry Johnson sat over his supper of meat and potatoes, but he only picked at his food.

“Did you hear what happened to our new neighbors, Daddy?” Carolyn Johnson asked.

“Yes, I heard.”

“It serves them right,” Carolyn said. “Imagine the gall of them moving into an all white neighborhood. They have a daughter my age, too. How creepy!”

“That’s enough,” Harry snapped. “I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

He looked up at his wife’s face and saw the smirk on her lips. She knew.

After the last cup of coffee had been downed, after the dishes had been cleaned away to the sink and Harry Johnson was left alone with the falling sun, the song began. It was the same song, but ever so more haunting than before, scratching on the window, begging to penetrate the walls and bound into the heart.

He got up from the table and went to the window. Nothing seemed important except the song, for the song was life and life was important. But after the song ended, Harry felt the emptiness that he had felt before, for the song had lifted him to places he had never been before.

He went into the bedroom and took off his dirty work clothes and threw them on the bed on top of the sheets that looked like dirty handkerchiefs. He tried not to think.

“Going out?” his wife asked, as he walked toward the door. 

Harry shook his head.

“Do you want your bowling hall?” 

“No, I don’t want my bowling ball.

He opened the door, but behind him were words: “Harry?” He turned around. “Harry, be careful.” The look in her eye said ‘be careful’ and the sound of his heels on the steps rang out in his mind like a solemn chorus whispering the words ‘be careful’. 

Dick Marcus was already at the bar. They sat at a little table in a darkened corner and nobody saw them. In an hour there were six of them. They were Art’s friends. Harry didn’t care to know them.

He sat fingering his drink, but finally drank it. It felt good and warm in a hollow stomach. He had another and another, then another until he was dizzy and weak and nothing mattered anymore – not the blacks across the street, not the apartment, not his wife or daughter of the house across the street. 


It was nearly midnight when they walked back, the six of them. They thought they were an army. Six thousand strong they might have been and they could not have felt stronger of more fearless. They walked down the street on this Saturday night with Sunday morning a haze in a crystal ball. They walked under the stars that were blinking in the sky, under the moon that was an ocean moon like the ones that Harry had known and loved on a battleship is the South Pacific so may centuries ago.

Then they were is front of the house with the shattered glass. “Hey, you in there. Hey, niggers,” Art yelled, the liquor warm in his stomach. “Hey, you goddamned black-eyed son-of-a-bitch. We’re gonna get you. We’ll come back ’til you’re gone! You hear that niggers. Until you’re gone. Every goddamn night ’til you’re gone. We’re gonna get you, niggers.”

“Get their car,” yelled one of Art’s friends. “Get these black sons-a-bitches.”

The little army ran to the old, shabby car. One of Art’s friends drew a hammer and the glass was smashed. The tires were cut end the six were able to turn it on its side so that it lay dead with its tires spinning.

Somone had phoned the police and they heard the sirens cutting into their backs as the big black man and his daughter came running from the house.

“Get away,” the man yelled. “Get away from my car. Get away from my house.” 

“You black-eyed son-of-a-bitch,” yelled one of Art’s friends. “You black scum of the street, we’ll show you.” Four of them grabbed the big man and left him bleeding on the walk. 

“Get away from Poppa,” yelled the girl, pulling on Art. “Get away!” 

A fist to the face sent her reeling on the walk, her night dress was up to her waist. 

“Get her.” screamed the night. “Take her away,” but no one could tell who was doing the yelling. Harry saw two of them pick up to girl and run down the street under the street light and into to dark. “Run, you fools. Can’t you hear the cops?”

They ran into to alley and up to block. The sirens stopped, but the red lights flashed and shone orange upon to house across the street.


Harry awoke to to rattling of coffee in the percolator and to pungent odor of frying bacon. He could hear the floorboards creak as his wife walked over to to bed. “Harry?”

“Yeah, I’m awake.”

“Get up. You’ll be late for church.” 


“Get up. It’s Sunday morning.”

He opened his ayes and looked into the face of his wife, the ashen face with wrinkles he had never seen before. 

“I don’t want to go to church,” Harry said and closed his eyes. He could feel her staring at him and he opened them again.

“The girl, Harry. What about the girl?” There were tears in his wife’s eyes.

“What about her?” 

“What did they do to her?”

“Oh, hell, I don’t know. There were these two friends of Art’s. 1 don’t know.” 

“They raped her, didn’t they, Harry?” she said. Her voice was coarse and cracked. 

“I don’t know.” 

“I’ll bet they didn’t stop there, Harry.” 

“I don’t know.” He saw the tears stream down her cheeks and reached up to brush then away with the back of his hand. “Do you really think I ought to go?”


“To church.”

“Sure,” she said. “Oh God, yes. Oh, Harry…”

Harry stood at the window and looked down upon the street before he put on his woolen suit and the snap-on bow tie. He saw the broken glass and the blood on the walk, the peeling paint and the broken shrubs.

He thought of a song, a song in the dusk and the voice of a maiden ringing out like a bell in the twilight – a voice that made him forget. He looked around the room that was more dismal than it. had ever been before and he knew that he would never forget again.

Not ever.



The book by Robert James Waller and the movie starring Clint Eastwood and Meryl Steep has turned the sleepy Iowa town of Winterset, Iowa into a year-round attraction.


Even before the book was written, the town prided itself on being the birthplace and home of John Wayne. An entire block is now devoted to his memory and one of the main streets has been renamed John Wayne Boulevard.


People come to see the bridges, but they are really interested in the fictional romance dreamed up by Waller and played exquisitely by Eastwood and Streep. The same women that would condemn their neighbor’s infidelity and shoot their husbands for staring at a young woman come in droves to worship at the spot where Francesca and the cuckolding Robert Kincaid fell into a romantic swoon and gave an added meaning to their lonely lives by finding love on a hot summer day.


Francesca is a woman who holds strong to the country values of keeping her family together. She meets the masculine, free-spirited Kincaid. He is a photographer for National Geographic whose assignment is to photograph the covered bridges. Unable to locate these bridges, he stops at the farm where Francesca lives. Her husband and two children were away at the state fair for a week. After guiding Kincaid to a nearby bridge, she invites him in for ice tea. Within a day, they shed their clothes and inhibitions to commence a four-day romance that the two will never forget. It all feels so natural and so right as they talk of things that Madison County people never talk about. Reality melts in the summer heat and their instant infatuation blooms into a deep love as fast as the quick brown fox can jump over the slow lazy dog.


It is understandable that Kincaid had trouble finding the bridges. They are located miles apart and all over the county––down winding gravel roads that leave a white coat of limey dust over all surfaces. Madison County is still a pictorial vision of the 1960s yet today. The rolling hills, the gravel country roads, the semi-pristine hardwood forests salute the past, as do the well-kept farms still owned by individual farmers.


The story of their romance had a bittersweet ending. After four days, Francesca decides that she will end the affair and stay with her husband and family. It is raining as she drives away with her husband in the pickup. When they pull up behind Kincaid’s truck, it is all she can do not to bolt from the truck and run off to a new life of unimagined adventures. After some years, Kincaid dies and sends his ashes and prized possessions back to Francesca, who keeps them hidden from everyone. They are not found by the family until Francesca herself passes on. The two children, now adults, are made aware of the passionate affair and have to deal with it in their own way.

The people who visit these bridges leave their marks behind them. They too search for romance. Lonely teens call out publicly for sex. Couples leave their calling cards on the timbers and the painted boards at the bridge entries.


love messages

The bridges have been maintained and rebuilt in the 1990s. The rustic work of long-dead carpenters can still be admired and written on by passers-by through the age. The bridges of Madison County still stand as a testimony to the artful lives of rural America in the 19th century. The story of the romance between Francesca and Kincaid also represents a change in American values. These tourists who come to visit do not condemn them. There is no scarlet letter “A” written on Francesca’s memory, Though the story is fiction, the romance is as real in the minds of the visitors as the bridges that brought them together. People do understand and relate to one another. Compassion has not died out completely. People still believe in the power of love to transform.




Rejection is often more painful than physical wounds and physical pain. It affects our entire state of being. Rejection can linger and fester like an infected wound. Even mild rejections can send us into feelings of isolation and wound our sense of self-worth. Brain scans show that the very same areas of the brain are activated during feelings of rejection as those areas that experience real physical pain.

Rejection has deep roots. Even in early human history, our survival depended upon inclusion in the social structure of the tribe. Rejection and ostracism could easily result in death. Our brains evolved to feel rejection in our pain receptors.

Dcanstock9859268espite the many thousands of years of human experience, modern humans still live in tribes. We tend to call these tribes families and groups. But they are tribes nonetheless. Our brains developed an early warning system so that rejections felt painful enough to make us change our behavior before total ostracism could occur.

We learn early that rejection is a fact of life and we must learn to deal with it. We learn that rejection comes in different degrees of severity and from many different sources. However, even mild rejection can cause chain reactions of memories and painful experiences to recur in the psyche.

Rejections destabilize us. Belonging is our most precious asset and rejection causes us to lose the urge to belong. We withdraw. In severe cases, we can become angry. We can feel the need to strike back – sometimes going as far as mass shootings, aggression, or self-destruction.

Through my illness I learned rejection. I was written off. That was the moment I thought, Okay, game on. No prisoners. Everybody’s going down. – Lance Armstrong 

Rerejection signjection causes self-doubt. It is a blow to our self-esteem. Yet, if you think about it, a runaway sense of self-esteem is not something to be desired. Social living requires that we temper our self-esteem. Rejection is a tool to keep our expectations and feelings of self-worth in check and balanced. Feelings of rejection do not respond to reason. We either pick ourselves or others apart looking for reasons for rejection. Perhaps we will find a real fault we need to correct and perhaps we will imagine a fault that does not really exist and make it real. Rejection lowers our intelligence and our ability to think clearly. That we will ponder the reasons for rejection is a foregone conclusion: that we will come up with a reasonable solution is not.

marilyn-monroe3Rejection is a universal problem for everyone. Marilyn Monroe said, “Sometimes I feel my whole life has been one big rejection.” We all know where that led.

Billy Joel said, “I really wish I was less of a thinking man and more of a fool not afraid of rejection.”

B640px-Bob_Dylan_in_November_1963ob Dylan said, “The world don’t need any more songs… as a matter of fact, if nobody wrote any songs from this day on, the world ain’t gonna suffer for it. Nobody cares.” I am not certain when Dylan said this, but it had to be during some period when he felt rejected. What he says is both true and false. True, the world does not need any more songs. There are already masterpieces enough for any occasion. But it is false that the world is not going to suffer from the lack of new songs. Songs write and reflect the essence of an era.

The history of our lives is our journey through rejection and acceptance. Some of us are far more adept at recovery and recreation than others. Michael York said, “I think that you have to believe in your destiny; that you will succeed. You will meet a lot of rejection and it is not always a straight path. There will be detours––so enjoy the view.”

Writers, musicians, and artists are old hands at dealing with rejection, yet every rejection is different and every move that we must make to overcome the associated emotions of rejection and pain are unique to the moment.

Taking time to process the rejection is essential. Big rejections do not go away easily. All rejections have a cumulative effect on us. Perhaps only time itself will resolve the problem. Talking with trusted friends helps, so long as we do not do it incessantly. Wallowing in misery is never good. When we find ourselves doing that, we need to do something else.

Airing our feelings of SaihiHitsugayarejection on the Internet is counterproductive. People do not want to hear about our emotional distress. Besides, the Internet never forgets and we will be stuck with our poor attitudes for much longer than we think. Your next boss or your next lover might get a bad opinion of the way you handle problems. The quicker we deal with rejection and move on, the happier we will be. Most rejections are not personal, so we do not need to make them personal. Knowing when to quit is hard, but essential. Some goals that we set for ourselves are bound to be unrealistic. We have millions of goals in a lifetime. Most of them are unrealistic. With time and the help of others around us, we learn to know the difference and teach ourselves to lead balanced lives. We need to realize that we give out rejection as much as we receive it. Giving a person a specific reason for rejection not only makes them feel better, but we are better people for having this ability.

If we cannot get rid of our feelings of rejection, can we treat it like pain and take medications for it? Functional magnetic resonance tests show that people who take acetaminophen daily for three weeks have less pain-related activity in their brains than people on placebos. Daily doses of acetaminophen, it seems, can cure some rejection pains.