You make a list of big goals, forever goals. Goals that if you have, you’ll be happy. And yes those exist. If you’ve ever been shoved into the mud you can grasp to what level this really means. We’re not saying perfectly happy at all times, the epitome of happiness. It’s more you don’t want to kill yourself. You’ll feel accomplished and successful. These are normally not specific goals. Specific goals keep you moving. These are the ones when you have and look at you feel comfort, safety, acceptance, and consideration. These goals make you want to live another day. They make every moment a celebration. These are really your basics. What you need to feel as if you deserve life.
In all honestly, most people don’t need to write them down because they already have them. It’s something for kids to think about what they want for real in their future. I’ll call you lucky if you have your big goals.
No one should go without having the big goals.
Okay, my big goals aren’t outlandish. I hope anyway. They feel impossible. They feel as if I can never reach them in a million years. I hate that. I’ve made goals in an effort to reach these big goals. Nothing I have done or accomplished has made me even a step closer. What am I doing wrong? Life. I’m doing life wrong.
- I want an income that supports me.
- I want a job to call my own.
- I want a family I can lean on and trust.
- I want a body that isn’t trying to die every other day.
How likely am I to succeed with these goals? In all technicalities, I have succeeded at number two. Cat Hartliebe is me. I am an author. I have zero confidence anymore as an author. But I am one.
The rest? I’m fucked, aren’t I? The one that hurts the most is number three. I really wish I had a family I could lean on and trust. If I did I bet the rest wouldn’t be as hard.
I can’t keep doing this.
I am running out of hope.
I’m thirty three years in and haven’t managed anything.