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Dear Diary
I haven’t kept a journal for years — other than one of those informal health-related things where you jot down everything you eat in an attempt to figure out why your migraines are worse — and of course who can bother with that for more than a few weeks before losing interest? But in my teens and early twenties I was an indefatigable journaler.
Which, I’ve got to tell you, makes for some hysterically funny reading now.
But we won’t get into my youthful angst over failed romances. Sheeeeesh!
Last night I came across a semi-journal I’d briefly kept a few years ago at my day job when I had a lunatic boss — I mean the kind of nut who was so far out there I can’t even use him in a book because no one would believe such a person could exist — who perceived me as a huge threat to him and tried ceaselessly for almost a year to get me to quit.
On the advice of several people I kept the journal to track all the inappropriate and harassing things this lunatic did, but inevitably (me being a writer) it turned into a more general sort of account of things going on in my life, and what I was hoping for and working towards and blah, blah, blah.
I didn’t keep it for more than three or four months because the crazy boss got himself fired, and there was no longer any need for it.
But as I read over this rambling account I was fascinated — and startled — to see how much I’d achieved since that time. I’d accomplished almost every single goal I’d set myself.
That in itself blew me away. Frankly, I never feel like I get much of anything done. I’m always frustrated with how little progress I make (you name the mountain, and I’ll explain to you why I’m still sitting at base camp). I always feel like I’m failing to live up to my self-imposed aims, and yet I can’t let go of any of those ambitions without feeling like a failure. But apparently I don’t notice when I do achieve those goals, so I sort of feel like a failure anyway.
Well, not really…but I do feel the constant pressure to keep moving, to do more and to do it faster and better.
So it really was kind of a shock to see how much I’d achieved. Everything from buying a house to getting my first mystery published to getting my migraines under control to writing full-time.
Naturally all those goals were replaced with newer and bigger goals, but…what does it say about me that I apparently never noticed or stopped to celebrate those achievements? Because, while they may not be the stuff that cures cancer or changes the world, they were all really important goals to me at the time that I made them.
Anyway, I closed that journal feeling excited and sort of proud of myself. I’ve resolved to take note when I achieve one of my goals and to allow myself to feel good about it without instantly feeling like I need to pick up the pace.
Oh — I regret to say I couldn’t feel anything but loathing and the desire for continued disaster for my old ex-boss, so maybe one of my new goals should be working on a more loving and forgiving spirit.
So how about you? Are you goal oriented? Maybe to a fault? Do you stop to celebrate your achievements or do you always feel that pressure to pick up the pace?
