I’ve written about this before, I know. Like everyone I know, I have so much on my to-do list I am going to have to live forever. Writing my goals daily is helping me to define the important tasks that take me closer to my goals and ignore the things that will take me farther from them. (For the first time, I believe I have used the word farther in a sentence. I have always written further. I hope this is the correct usage!)
Writing my goals daily is one thing, but I find I am still quite scattered when it comes to getting things done. I tend to chop and change across chores and activities, something I learned in the Dream Job. I really had to become a world-class multi-tasker because I had so many roles (because a) I don’t know how to set boundaries, and b) I don’t know how to ask for help and get it!) But I must have done something right because I nailed that job. Too bad I burned out in the process. They say that the way you do anything is the way you do everything and it’s something I need to get a handle on. This year’s word is ‘focus‘ and I am hanging on by my fingernails at present – the daily goals practice the only thing keeping me on task.
I told a story last night, one that someone dear to me had never heard before. She saw me in a new light. She finally understood a few ‘whys’. Why I fled. Why I kept myself to myself. Why I find it hard to trust some people. It feels really good to be heard but only by those who use the words for empathy and understanding.
I have a couple more stories. Stories that I hope would help people see why I did what I did, why others did what they did. But I don’t want those stories taken and twisted by those who would use them to justify their ‘whys’. They can tell their own stories.
What a challenge we have, to rise above our past. To stop being the victim. The woman who tried to end my child’s life before he was born matters far more to me than she should. I guarantee she never gives me a second thought. I need to let it go and also let go of the resentment. Who cares if someone thought I treated her badly when it was she who made me feel so unsafe I had to move 2000km away? Why should it matter after 20 years?
I want to tell, to write, the stories as a way to transcend them. But I also want a little bit of justification, some sympathy and perhaps for my audience to hate that person just a little bit.