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I had goals for years. I didn't know it, because that's not what I called them. I called them dreams, aspirations, expectations. But they were goals.
The perfect marriage. Perfect husband. Perfect (talented, beautiful, smart) kids. An immaculate, perfectly decorated home. And me. Perfectly dressed, coiffed, and happy -- all the time.
You see the flaw already, don't you? It's ridiculously obvious.
I was a smart girl, but I still bought into the advertising. Anyone who didn't have it all together had no one to blame but themselves.
Look at that commercial. That tiny woman is eating a candy bar. Implying that she eats one everyday. That woman just had a baby last week, and she's back to her pre-baby weight, clothes, life, energy -- as if the pregnancy never happened at all. Those people eating at the local fast food joint are happy, healthy, and well-dressed. All those kids are happy, obedient, and love going to school while making straight As and being at the top of their chosen sport.
This is not real life!
Real life is a process, not a constant. Real life is messy. It's a continuum.
So somewhere along the way I readjusted my concept of goals. Goals are things that I have control over. Goals are about me. My goals are no longer based on how other people behave. My goals are mine. Separate and apart from someone else's. That doesn't make them better or worse. That makes them mine.
New goals --
1. Be productive, whatever that means to me on any given day.
2. Be kind -- always.
3. Take care of me so I can take care of others.
4. Have fun EVERY SINGLE DAY.
5. Love.
These goals are attainable, maybe not everyday, but most days. And that's good enough for me.
linking up with Writer's Workshop
I started writing years ago. That random journaling that girls do all through high school. Writing down feelings, pain, thoughts, dreams, desires.
I gave it up. It seemed silly, childish, and immature. All that whining.
I went into therapy around 30. The counselor suggested journaling, but all I could do was chronicle my days.
I gave it up. It seemed silly, childish, and immature. All that minutiae.
I forged ahead trying to live my life the way everyone told me I should.
I broke.
I started writing again. It was the only way to get the thoughts and pictures in my head to calm down. It seemed silly, childish, and immature. But this time I couldn't give it up. I needed to "tell" someone.
I vomited out all the horror of abuse, betrayal, distrust, and shame.
Eventually I started to share what I'd written.
I started a blog.
I wanted to share my past, my present, and my dreams for my future.
I questioned my reasons. I wrote anyway.
I dream of writing a book that is cohesive -- that helps other people with similar struggles.
I wonder about my motivations. Are they pure?
I wonder if I am setting myself up as a survivor. Am I survivor?
I worry about questions asked that I can't answer.
I worry about memoirs that are discounted after the fact.
I worry about someone calling me a liar, just like they said would happen.
But I keep writing. Telling the story. Sharing the pain. Hoping for the best.
I'm not sure if those are goals, ambitions, aspirations. I just know it's what keeps me moving forward. Because maybe it wasn't ever silly, childish, and immature. Maybe it is just my life. And that makes it worth telling.
