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Not that you'd know it by looking at me today. I feel like crap, so I try
to trick myself into feeling better by dressing up. My black Dansko clogs
are pretty standard wear when it's crying down rain like this, but the
cream tights are worn so seldom they're practically an anomaly. I'm
wearing a straight, dark maroon skirt with a slit up the front that ends
in buttons to my waist. Over that I've got an elaborately embroidered
cream blouse made of Indian cotton. My bone chalice is around my neck,
and the whole ensemble is topped by a crocheted cream cap, that holds my
hair - which is long and otherwise untethered - out of my eyes. I'm very pleased with my outfit today; it feels like the first thing I've been pleased with myself about all week. Not that that's even true. I'm very pleased with the technical document that I wrote in 2 1/2 days for work. 15 pages long, and, I've found, very easy to follow. If nothing else, I've pleased our Director of World Sales and the administrative assistant in Germany. And Jenna, who's always a good friend to me. No one else in my office really even noticed what I did. Ok, Christa did - she had this project before I did and knows what a bear it was - but she's got her own worries now. This was a very important project that, once again, falls outside the realm of what our company really does. In other words, I'm once again oiling the gears you never see. The Boss (take your pick, I've many) won't ever see what I just did and, if he did, wouldn't care much. Argh. I don't mean to be such a pessimist. I recently heard on the radio about a study that suggests that people with pessimistic attitudes die sooner. But even without that, I've always fancied myself an optimist. I think the problem isn't pessimism or optimism, it's feedback. I'm always hungry for positive feedback. I think I take compliments pretty well - I've been practicing - but I get nervous about them. Compliments are so fleeting. They're hard to share. Despite that fact, I to try to share them with David all the time. I guess I assume he'll still love me even when I call him up or email him to purr about an unexpected kudo I've just received. It's my way of trying to hold on to what the complimenter just said, my attempt to make it real and True. I guess I'm trying to make it so True, I can believe it for myself. Geesh. When did I get such a looking-glass theory of self-worth? Why do I need other people as mirrors? Why can't I just say to myself, "Gosh, Heather, I'm extremely impressed that you wrote your first technical document - 15 page document, I might add - in two days! Wow, you ARE smart!" Maybe I have trouble patting myself on the back because I know that the motivation for this project was almost entirely external. It was the deadline that made me write so fast, not my own passion or natural skill level. My stories come in flashes of inspiration, but I write them much more quickly if I have a deadline. I need that external pressure to spur me on to do almost anything. Once it's done, I need that external pressure to come back in compliment form. To reassure me I did the project correctly and in the way it was expected. No, I need to know I EXCEEDED their expectations and that they think I'm incredibly smart, skilled and competent. That makes some sense, doesn't it? It's a neat little circle - external pressure, external praise? I hope the above doesn't sound forlorn. I don't mean it to. Really, today this all comes in the form of small dissatisfactions. I think I'm resenting the fact that all these hours in front of the computer have resulted in well-done homework assignments and technical documents for work. And all those hours resulted in me going to the chiropractor and the acupuncturist (whose crafty needles opened up blocked passageways so that my glands were swollen with overuse last night as all the nastiness finally drained away...) for the extreme neck pain I had earlier in the week. So little of my energy goes towards my true passions; so little of what I do is done for *ME*. I keep asking myself: is this adulthood? Is this modern life? Do I really have other choices? And, if I do, am I strong enough to choose? | ||
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