It's becoming more and more clear to me, as I collect years and experience, that I have a lingering case of Imposter Syndrome.
When I was in the waiting room at the Vet's office the other day (just a check-up for Mason), I picked up a copy of the newspaper at which I used to be editor. As I flipped through the pages, I had an unflattering mix of emotions--mostly smugness that he wasn't perfect, and bitterness that he was (repeatedly) doing things that my boss had given me absolute hell for.
So often, I can't accept accomplishments, because I think they weren't deserved, and I think I'm probably not taken seriously, so I shouldn't take myself too seriously.
I don't think I have ever uttered the words "I'm a writer," or "I was a journalist," or "I was an editor," or "I was an organic farm supervisor and farmhand." I mean, the closest I get is: "I'm a [fill in the blank]-ish." Even though I've been paid to do all of those things, I don't think I was real.
Perhaps it is because I never tried too hard, and all-too-often made decisions and floated where life took me without conviction. Maybe it's because I didn't give my not-prestigious graduate work my all. I just didn't know who I was or what I was doing until, um, a couple of years ago.
I've not had that problem at my current job, because it is something I worked for, and it took a long time (in Leigh time) to truly accomplish. I can easily say, "I'm an English instructor" and not feel like a poser (to borrow from my eighth-grade boyfriend's skater vernacular). Although I do still feel like it was a heap of luck that got me where I am. So that Imposter Syndrome--it's lingering.
It's kind of like our farm. It's not reallly a farm, it's only eight acres. We're not reallly farmers, as we have no cash crops or meat livestock (well, except for Turkey--and we're still not sure about him). We're not reallly homesteaders, as we have full-time jobs and don't work hard enough. It just doesn't feel real, just like it didn't feel real to be a newspaper editor or freelance writer.
Well, it's starting to feel more real--perhaps because we're persevering this time, not just wiling away the hours in a job, or a home, that isn't it. We've dealt with more death on our farm(ish)--which was a terrible short story with a moral that we can probably never have cats--and we have piles of barn junk in plain view as they wait for a trip to the dump. My garden is mostly weeds (don't get me wrong, it's already produced enough to more than pay for the seeds I bought--have you seen prices for organic tomatoes?). And this is all OK. Because we're learning, and we plan to get better, to improve. Maybe that's the key to not feeling like an imposter--keeping going.
I'm standing at the threshold of my real (not real-ish) life right now--a career I want, and a lifestyle I want--and I'm determined to not let myself feel like an imposter all of the time. I think it's important to be thankful for what one has, and a good dose of "How on earth was I able to land this gig/house/land?" is good for the soul, but I need more conviction to be confident in what's on my resume and on my to-do list.
Sure, someday I'll tell my grandchildren about the time when I was a journalist-ish when I confused "Chinese" and "Japanese" when referring to interment camps in a (otherwise pretty good) newspaper column. And I'll still feel ridiculous and embarrassed. But hopefully I'll never put -ish at the end of "English instructor" or "Homesteader."
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Feathers and Puffy Eyes
Marriage Rule #74:
Don't talk about finances at 3 a.m. after one of you has been sleeping on the couch and just found out her hen has died.
You live, you learn.
Two weeks ago, one of our Barred Rocks became very lethargic and basically stopped walking. We put her in a box separate from the rest of the flock, got her antibiotics, gave her antibiotic-laced water with a syringe (and apple cider vinegar water), concocted various meals of Greek yogurt, apples, oats, gave her a bath of epsom salts... there was some intense nurturing going on at the Kolb homestead.
But still, her little toes were flaccid and while she gained weight and was healthy otherwise, her feet just weren't working. I was holding on hope she'd start walking, though.
And last night, she was taken from the coop by a predator. The coop, with its cracked-open door and a lack of adequate covering for her (we never leave it open so late, but we did last night). Andy returned from a friend's house at 2 a.m. (where he'd been learning investment tricks and debt advice), and he woke me up as I was sleeping on the couch. "Did you check on Henrietta?" "No..." "She's gone." Just a few feathers remained.
Was I irresponsible? Yes. Was she going to ever walk again? Probably not. I'm not trying to justify the negligence, but I can't help but hope that if her life wasn't ever going to be healthy, that she was part of the food chain instead of us having to cull her. We know that's a part of being who we are becoming... but divine intervention sometimes makes things easier for us.
So I was tired, and so upset with myself and at losing her, and poor Andy tried to bring up that we needed to seriously talk about debt reduction, and I just started sobbing--a few minutes for Henrietta, a few minutes for money, back and forth, back and forth. I went to sleep and awoke with a puffy face and eyes, the tell-tale emotional hangover.
We're just fine now, and these outbursts are necessary--at least that have been for me for as long as I remember. (One of my favorite stories involved my mom leaving me at my Grandma and Grandpa Kellmanns' house when I was two or three, and I proceeded to lie by the backdoor, kicking and screaming and sobbing for about a half an hour. When I'd finished, I walked into the living room and announced to my grandparents, "I don't know why I do that sometimes." That pretty much sums up me at times.)
So we lost our first hen, and one of our hens turned out to be a rooster, so we're down to seven future layers. My parents have a few too many chicks (Mom hatched them in her classroom), so we'll probably adopt a couple more Barred Rocks in the near future. Andy and Denver dug post holes and placed posts for the chicken yard, so soon that project will be finished (there is not much we don't do backward). Mason and Avy have taken quite well to the invisible fence, so their lives have improved ten-fold--lots of buddying around, running and digging and sleeping. (Yes, a year ago I would have argued that invisible fences are cruel, but that was before we adopted a dog who could climb over 5' fences and jump out barn windows. Another homesteading rule: You just do what you have to do sometimes. Pragmatism trumps idealism.) Seeing them run together, and greeting us when we get home makes me want to cry--the happy kind of tears.
It's been quite a weekend. Many projects are moving forward, but reality sinks in before we get too comfortable. We need to get serious about budgeting and being smarter with our finances. And I really, really need to weed the garden.
Don't talk about finances at 3 a.m. after one of you has been sleeping on the couch and just found out her hen has died.
You live, you learn.
Two weeks ago, one of our Barred Rocks became very lethargic and basically stopped walking. We put her in a box separate from the rest of the flock, got her antibiotics, gave her antibiotic-laced water with a syringe (and apple cider vinegar water), concocted various meals of Greek yogurt, apples, oats, gave her a bath of epsom salts... there was some intense nurturing going on at the Kolb homestead.
But still, her little toes were flaccid and while she gained weight and was healthy otherwise, her feet just weren't working. I was holding on hope she'd start walking, though.
And last night, she was taken from the coop by a predator. The coop, with its cracked-open door and a lack of adequate covering for her (we never leave it open so late, but we did last night). Andy returned from a friend's house at 2 a.m. (where he'd been learning investment tricks and debt advice), and he woke me up as I was sleeping on the couch. "Did you check on Henrietta?" "No..." "She's gone." Just a few feathers remained.
Was I irresponsible? Yes. Was she going to ever walk again? Probably not. I'm not trying to justify the negligence, but I can't help but hope that if her life wasn't ever going to be healthy, that she was part of the food chain instead of us having to cull her. We know that's a part of being who we are becoming... but divine intervention sometimes makes things easier for us.
So I was tired, and so upset with myself and at losing her, and poor Andy tried to bring up that we needed to seriously talk about debt reduction, and I just started sobbing--a few minutes for Henrietta, a few minutes for money, back and forth, back and forth. I went to sleep and awoke with a puffy face and eyes, the tell-tale emotional hangover.
We're just fine now, and these outbursts are necessary--at least that have been for me for as long as I remember. (One of my favorite stories involved my mom leaving me at my Grandma and Grandpa Kellmanns' house when I was two or three, and I proceeded to lie by the backdoor, kicking and screaming and sobbing for about a half an hour. When I'd finished, I walked into the living room and announced to my grandparents, "I don't know why I do that sometimes." That pretty much sums up me at times.)
So we lost our first hen, and one of our hens turned out to be a rooster, so we're down to seven future layers. My parents have a few too many chicks (Mom hatched them in her classroom), so we'll probably adopt a couple more Barred Rocks in the near future. Andy and Denver dug post holes and placed posts for the chicken yard, so soon that project will be finished (there is not much we don't do backward). Mason and Avy have taken quite well to the invisible fence, so their lives have improved ten-fold--lots of buddying around, running and digging and sleeping. (Yes, a year ago I would have argued that invisible fences are cruel, but that was before we adopted a dog who could climb over 5' fences and jump out barn windows. Another homesteading rule: You just do what you have to do sometimes. Pragmatism trumps idealism.) Seeing them run together, and greeting us when we get home makes me want to cry--the happy kind of tears.
It's been quite a weekend. Many projects are moving forward, but reality sinks in before we get too comfortable. We need to get serious about budgeting and being smarter with our finances. And I really, really need to weed the garden.
Monday, July 5, 2010
A New Year
A year ago today, we went to go look at a house in the country on a whim. This would turn out to be one of the most terrible experiences Andy or I had ever experienced, but it lead us to where we needed to be. (If you're interested, she's still listing it on craigslist!)
I'm no Dickens fan, but this past year has epitomized the whole "best of times, worst of times" dichotomy.
On one hand, we sold a house for a profit, found our dream home, my best friends have gotten married, I've gotten to travel a bit, my garden and our new flock of poultry are doing well, and I got a new, stable position at work.
On the other hand, we discovered how untrustworthy people can be (while losing money in the process), were without our own home for a couple of months, work has been on thin ice at times for both of us, we dealt with some dog medical/emotional emergencies, health problems for those we love, and perennial money problems.
One of my favorite things about teaching is the ability to press a reset button after every new semester and school year--I have an internal calendar that lets me know come May, it's time to turn new leaves for September.
This year, July 5 has been added on to my internal calendar. I fully expect that we will be dealt numerous difficult hands in our time on earth, but I'm looking forward to this next year being one of stability, where we can grow what we've planted and keep building for the future. Just a year and a day ago, we thought moving to the country was a couple of years away. We didn't know how to drywall, lay flooring, paint well, do tile work, build a chicken coop, or raise chickens. We'd never cleaned off a dog who swam in our lagoon, laid awake with a maimed pet, dealt with a mice invasion, asked neighbors to bale our pasture, or administered antibiotics to an ailing chicken. Now we do, and we have.
I'd always heard that the first year of marriage was the hardest, but I didn't find that to be true at all. The first year of living in the country? There you go. I'm finding out new and wonderful facets of my husband every day, but we're both having to grow accustomed to the work load and one another's expectations for this life we've carved. Like all things, we'll figure it out.
I'm pressing the reset button on this blog and my life today.
And perhaps, next July 5, there will be goats.
I think anyone who reads this is on facebook, but in case you aren't, here are a couple of photo albums of what's been going on:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=160537&id=504008552&l=bad241e00c
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=156705&id=504008552&l=d62715bb8c
I'm no Dickens fan, but this past year has epitomized the whole "best of times, worst of times" dichotomy.
On one hand, we sold a house for a profit, found our dream home, my best friends have gotten married, I've gotten to travel a bit, my garden and our new flock of poultry are doing well, and I got a new, stable position at work.
On the other hand, we discovered how untrustworthy people can be (while losing money in the process), were without our own home for a couple of months, work has been on thin ice at times for both of us, we dealt with some dog medical/emotional emergencies, health problems for those we love, and perennial money problems.
One of my favorite things about teaching is the ability to press a reset button after every new semester and school year--I have an internal calendar that lets me know come May, it's time to turn new leaves for September.
This year, July 5 has been added on to my internal calendar. I fully expect that we will be dealt numerous difficult hands in our time on earth, but I'm looking forward to this next year being one of stability, where we can grow what we've planted and keep building for the future. Just a year and a day ago, we thought moving to the country was a couple of years away. We didn't know how to drywall, lay flooring, paint well, do tile work, build a chicken coop, or raise chickens. We'd never cleaned off a dog who swam in our lagoon, laid awake with a maimed pet, dealt with a mice invasion, asked neighbors to bale our pasture, or administered antibiotics to an ailing chicken. Now we do, and we have.
I'd always heard that the first year of marriage was the hardest, but I didn't find that to be true at all. The first year of living in the country? There you go. I'm finding out new and wonderful facets of my husband every day, but we're both having to grow accustomed to the work load and one another's expectations for this life we've carved. Like all things, we'll figure it out.
I'm pressing the reset button on this blog and my life today.
And perhaps, next July 5, there will be goats.
I think anyone who reads this is on facebook, but in case you aren't, here are a couple of photo albums of what's been going on:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=160537&id=504008552&l=bad241e00c
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=156705&id=504008552&l=d62715bb8c
Reset
My, five months goes quickly... time to start blogging again in earnest. I hope to switch to a different Web host soon, as I don't love Blogger's photo uploader, but perhaps that's just a terrible excuse for my lack of writing. Let's get back on track, shall we?
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