Personal Growth Is Totally, Like, HARD!

As I said in a previous post, I started a new job in January. This is the first proper JOB I've had since leaving the company where I spent 10 years. (It was really tempting to say waste, if we're being honest, which we generally are, in this space.) I had the two nannyish type gigs in between, and the jewelry selling, but this is the first job where I go to an office and sit at a desk and all that good stuff. 

Anyone who's been reading this blog for a while knows how...effing brutal my old work environment was. I had the boss who was verbally abusive, who had a boss who was, I'm pretty sure, actually insane. Then, I had the chaotic, rudderless group wherein my boss literally hired someone two grades my senior to DO THE SAME JOB I WAS ALREADY DOING. Basically, by the time I left that joint in 2010, I had no professional confidence left. None. I had come to believe that, while the environment was crazy, I must also be a sub-par employee. I believed I wasn't competent. 

I've been in regular therapy since just after my miscarriage in 2010, and we've spent quite a bit of time on the anxiety that started during that work experience and exploded after E was born. And I've made a lot of progress. I have. But I've got a long way to go.

I panic over work on the regular. I convince myself I've made some kind of massive mistake. I convince myself I haven't done something I was meant to, or that I've done something I wasn't meant to. I work myself up into actual panic attacks. I can't seem to trust my own competence. But understanding that is in itself a huge step.

I'm a work in progress (you guys know that's my mantra, right?). I'm learning. I'm learning to leave old experiences behind me. I'm learning to trust myself. To trust that if I'm doing my best, that's the best thing for me.

And since I process through writing, it felt like something I should get out in this space, this struggle. I know my anxiety as a general thing is well covered hereabouts, but this particular issue felt like it needed addressing. 

I'm going to fight through this. I'm not going to live my life in fear, whether it's fear of freak medical diagnoses, or fear of trusting myself professionally or personally. 

Still and Always

Our house goes back on the market today, featuring all new flooring on the first floor. We are hopeful that the new flooring will make for a more pleasing entry into our home, since it's the first thing that greets visitors. We'll see.

Yesterday, I was doing some organizing in the basement. And I came across an unopened box containing a bottle of my Dad's cologne (Grey Flannel), which I'd found at TJ Maxx and was saving to give to him (They discontinued it several years ago and I've been stockpiling it whenever I've found it since). I'd given him a bottle a year or two ago for Father's Day, and I knew there was still plenty left, so I was saving this one for when he was getting low again. Seeing it, unexpectedly, in my basement, about undid me. I'd forgotten I'd put it down there. And it slapped me right in the face - metaphorically, of course - it's not actually magical cologne. 

Six months on, this still sucks. I don't cry every day anymore, and there are even times when I can think of my Dad without feeling like there's an anchor hanging from my solar plexus. But it still sucks. I still hate it. 

Fisher Price makes a Noah's Ark toy. My Mom has had it since my oldest niece was little. The Noah looks like my dad (bald, with white crown of hair and beard), and every one of the kids has referred to it as Papa. Recently, the daycare at the gym acquired one, too. E discovered the "Papa" doll recently, and now every time we go, she grabs it, and she plays with "Papa" while we're there. And she's generally pretty reluctant to give him up when it's time to go. 

This is so sweet. But it's also so heart breaking. I hate that her memories of Papa will be so toddler-fuzzy. I refuse to say she won't remember him, because she's my kid and I still remember my best friend when I was 2, Cindy, whom I haven't laid eyes on since 1978. But she won't have the lifetime of memories that I was lucky enough to share with my grandparents, and with Papa. And that, while part of life, and not at all uncommon, is bittersweet. 

My grandmother, who was so, so proud of her Irish heritage, LOVED St. Patrick's Day. She would proudly wear her green Red Sox golf cap and tell everyone that her maiden name was "Cashman, thank you very much." I like to imagine she's up there wearing her cap today, and tilting a few with my Dad (obviously wearing his favorite Kelly green half-zip sweater, which, being in heaven, has magically been restored to its stain-free form), and my grandfather, who is very likely grumbling about the crowds, while my uncle cannily finds ways through said crowds the way only he could. I could go on and on about who's at that party...the grandparents I co-opted as an extra set when I was six, my friend Erica, who was way too young to go when she went three weeks ago...I could go on. Sure, death is a part of life. Sure, acceptance of that is also a part of life. But that doesn't mean I have to like it.