Imposter Syndrome

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."