So today, I expressed my opinion on something going on at work, probably in a less than satisfactory manner. But I'll freely admit that I've gotten to the point in my career that I don't give a rat's ass about what people think about me. I do a good job, a really good job, and I take my work seriously. People like me, even my co-workers. My customers, whether internal or external, love me. So when I have a concern, people should listen. Unfortunately, in most of the places I've worked, someone like me -- a known trouble maker, at least as far as management is concerned -- has to throw a temper tantrum to be heard. Yes, I'm that person who says the things management doesn't want to hear.
But that really isn't the problem, because as I said, I don't really give a rat's ass about what people think about me. I'm a good person. If you don't like me, that's your problem. My problem is that my inner voice, let's call it Momma, nags me if I do something "wrong." Being criticized drives me crazy because Momma's always there to say, "I told you so." To say, "You, yet again, fell short of...." Doesn't really matter what it is. It could be a simple mistake. But whatever it is, it points out the fact that I'm never good enough, and never will be good enough for this voice in my head.
If you've read any of my work, you'll notice that not being good enough is a theme that threads its way through my stories. In some ways, writing helps me explore those feelings and try to put them away. If I prove that other people are like me, even if they're fictional, then maybe I'm not as fucked up as I think I am.
But in the fifty-four years I've been around, nothing has completely made those feelings go away. Writing comes closer than anything else. I tried meditating, and the voice said, "What a waste of time. You should be working. You're being lazy." I've tried mantras. Didn't help. I've tried therapy. And what a load of crap that is. If you understand the problem, where it's coming from, then it will go away. Not! I've tried running, but exhaustion doesn't help either. Running actually makes it worse because I'm trapped in my head for forty-five minutes to an hour. Plus when I run, I'm constantly berating myself for not going faster or further. I've even tried drinking myself into oblivion, but what usually happens is that I end up barfing up everything down to my toenails, which gives me further reason to focus on how lame I am.
And now, the voice is saying that everyone is going to think I'm having a pity party. So maybe writing about me doesn't help that much. I need to get back to actively writing. I need to finish editing and move on with something new, something that will distract me from this internal churn.
With that said:
"Wow, this blog post is really depressing," says my inner Momma voice. "No one will want to read it."
"Fuck you," says my inner Sara voice. "Oh, and here's a picture of BlackBeary, since I haven't posted any pictures in awhile."
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