My fifth form maths’ teacher was the first to label me, ‘highly strung’.
He told me his opinion after throwing a blackboard duster at me (it hit me on the head), on the day I discovered my parents were divorcing.
I was never good at maths anyway. Not like words. I was good with those. I am good with those. Present tense.
Arent I?
Don’t answer that, it’s a rhetorical question.
My father, the accountant wanted me to be an accountant. I told him it wasn’t possible on account of the fact I couldn’t count. He told me once I’d never make any money writing.
I banked a cheque for $20k once. I couldn’t help smiling to myself as I banked it into my account. $2000 a word is not bad.
Defining my success with numbers. Not with words. See Dad!!!! My Dad the financial wizard.
Why do I do that?
A friend once introduced me to another by saying:
‘This is Vicki, she comes from a high-achieving family. Her father was xy. He was the Finance Director of [bigarse company] and organised the largest debt-equity swap deal of its time in the world!’
And me.. what can I do? Well I’ve progressed to joined-up writing now…
I’ve had this pressure all my life. The pressure that comes from being the bohemian black sheep of the family. The one who writes, but doesn’t add. The arty one.
Was I dropped into this family from Mars. Am I an intergalactic homestay who decided to stay?
I can handle a chequebook, and manage a significant business budget. One of the proudest moments of my life was when I surveyed the presents under the Christmas tree that first Christmas without Big Mistake (BM). I had paid for every single one of those presents for my kids.
Nothing was on credit. I’d done it.
I had cleared the tax debt he had so cruelly lumbered me with, and provided for my kids, and had savings. I had done it all on my own. And I was the one who was never brilliant with numbers..
Heather from notesfromlapland recently blogged about success and how it (rightly) matters to her. I absolutely understand her feelings. I understand the need to feel that I have made a damn good go at this change in career at this stage of my life. I hate myself that it’s not happening fast enough.
At 41 years old I am starting again, in another country, on the other side of the world. Pretty much starting from scratch.
You know what? I’d be lying if I said the numbers don’t matter to me. They really, really do. Quietly I’m disappointed when I don’t make the grade.
When I remember my old life and financial success, when measures and tables are announced and I didn’t make the cut, I feel literally gutted. When blogging pals are (rightfully) congratulating each other. Highly strung me feels like the girl left out of the crowd at high school.
I try to remind myself that numbers may talk, but it’s words that communicate.
Do I really need to flay myself alive with these feelings of inadequacy?
Maybe I need to encourage myself with success that isn’t defined by numbers. I need to redefine success. Not look at different scores and different ratings – because from what I can ascertain I’m doing ok really well in some of those – but maybe I need to reconsider what success is. Isn’t it about helping others, giving advice and the benefit of your experience, communicating and making a difference. Don’t ask me to quantify it because I really don’t know how.
Am I ridiculously optimistic to believe that karma gives back to you what you give out? I want to give out, to help. I’ve had an interesting life so far, and a lot to share. What does that make me? Arty farty? A cardigan wearing chardonnay swilling socialist?
Or maybe it just makes me highly strung.
How do you define success? In your career? In your family? In your life? As a writer or as a blogger?
Image by Flickr CC kke227
