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Feeling low and emo, gonna let it out on LJ because that's what it's there for darn it.
I am, in some circles, moderately respected for my programming skills. I get people to look impressed or happy on a regular basis, and I measure my success by that. Programming is my job. But it's more than that, it defines me.
I am a Programmer.
If you don't have something that defines you, I probably can't explain to you what that means to me. Suffice to say it's important to me.
I take care and pride in my work: I comment carefully, debug thoroughly, document well, format my code with care and choose good consistent names for my functions, variable names, databases, tables, fields... it matters to me. I use words like craftsmanship and mean it. I make comparisons between programming and poetry, and mean it.
But I've never worked in the same place as other programmers. I've always been "the department's programmer", or "the company's programmer". I've basically been comparing myself to secretaries and students, and feeling I was pretty good in comparison. And I am. Comparatively.
Now, though, I have a job as a programmer. And it's really obvious that I suck. I suck at the thing I am best at in all the world. And I don't just suck, I fail so badly it's painful.
My boss is lovely, and that's half the problem. I got the job mostly to be able to work with him, a programmer I've admired for about 15 years. "It's OK," he says, "you're not used to..." and he finds some excuse. Excuses!
Nobody has *ever* had to make excuses for my code before.
The shame is crushing.
I feel like a singer, all of who's friends have always said she's great, hearing her recorded voice for the first time, and being horrified at how out of tune she is. And her friends make excuses, "you just had a bad day", "the acoustics were bad", "the mic was wrong", "you aren't used to working in a studio." But she knows, she's got ears, she can hear it: she can't bloody sing! It's her life to her, but she can't get away from that truth.
There's a vicious cycle. I was slow, so I tried to get faster, cutting corners, commenting less well, testing less well. Yesterday, my poor commenting was the talk of the office. Bad commenting! That's almost the ultimate programming sin, after bad naming choices. A non-programming manager lectured me on commenting style. And he was right, I needed it. Ow, ow, ow. Today, it was my testing.
BAD TESTING! I lead a team of dozens of testers. I teach them how to do it. I wrote the book on testing! What went so horribly, horribly wrong that I stopped testing my own code?
There's a table that I misnamed. It grates on my mind every time I think of it. And bad variable names as I tried and failed to match the elusive "house style" rather than just using my own preferences.
And the vicious cycle gets tighter: today I spent too much of my work-time thinking about how I sucked, sinking ever deeper into depression, traitrous tears escaping my eyes. So I got even less than usual done. I slipped further into suckage.
I feel like I'm in school, but even in school I was at least respected by my peers. I have no peers. I am the most junior of juniors. My opinion counts for nothing. My experience and knowledge isn't useful, except as much as it can be twisted to learn new stuff. I can't *help* anyone, be useful to anyone, make anyone happy.
Instead, I have to ask for help with the most remedial tasks, distracting people from more important work, and feeling useless every time I do. I take four times longer than a proper programmer. I've checked, against the estimated times for my jobs. And even after that time, the result is rushed and low-quality.
It's been a long time since I've felt this low. Since I've cried, let alone in public (though I'm hoping it wasn't noticed).
I know: I need to get over myself, tell my ego to shut up, and relish this chance to improve and hone my skills and soak up this free education and training, no matter how painful, and become the great programmer that I feel I should be. And I will. I don't want anyone to ever have to make excuses for me again. I want to improve, and fast.
Just as soon as I get over the sting of this most horrible discovery, and grow to accept it instead: I'm not an awesome programmer, or a good one, nor even just a mediocre programmer, I'm a bad one, the kind who's work I have winced and laughed at in the past.
I am, in some circles, moderately respected for my programming skills. I get people to look impressed or happy on a regular basis, and I measure my success by that. Programming is my job. But it's more than that, it defines me.
I am a Programmer.
If you don't have something that defines you, I probably can't explain to you what that means to me. Suffice to say it's important to me.
I take care and pride in my work: I comment carefully, debug thoroughly, document well, format my code with care and choose good consistent names for my functions, variable names, databases, tables, fields... it matters to me. I use words like craftsmanship and mean it. I make comparisons between programming and poetry, and mean it.
But I've never worked in the same place as other programmers. I've always been "the department's programmer", or "the company's programmer". I've basically been comparing myself to secretaries and students, and feeling I was pretty good in comparison. And I am. Comparatively.
Now, though, I have a job as a programmer. And it's really obvious that I suck. I suck at the thing I am best at in all the world. And I don't just suck, I fail so badly it's painful.
My boss is lovely, and that's half the problem. I got the job mostly to be able to work with him, a programmer I've admired for about 15 years. "It's OK," he says, "you're not used to..." and he finds some excuse. Excuses!
Nobody has *ever* had to make excuses for my code before.
The shame is crushing.
I feel like a singer, all of who's friends have always said she's great, hearing her recorded voice for the first time, and being horrified at how out of tune she is. And her friends make excuses, "you just had a bad day", "the acoustics were bad", "the mic was wrong", "you aren't used to working in a studio." But she knows, she's got ears, she can hear it: she can't bloody sing! It's her life to her, but she can't get away from that truth.
There's a vicious cycle. I was slow, so I tried to get faster, cutting corners, commenting less well, testing less well. Yesterday, my poor commenting was the talk of the office. Bad commenting! That's almost the ultimate programming sin, after bad naming choices. A non-programming manager lectured me on commenting style. And he was right, I needed it. Ow, ow, ow. Today, it was my testing.
BAD TESTING! I lead a team of dozens of testers. I teach them how to do it. I wrote the book on testing! What went so horribly, horribly wrong that I stopped testing my own code?
There's a table that I misnamed. It grates on my mind every time I think of it. And bad variable names as I tried and failed to match the elusive "house style" rather than just using my own preferences.
And the vicious cycle gets tighter: today I spent too much of my work-time thinking about how I sucked, sinking ever deeper into depression, traitrous tears escaping my eyes. So I got even less than usual done. I slipped further into suckage.
I feel like I'm in school, but even in school I was at least respected by my peers. I have no peers. I am the most junior of juniors. My opinion counts for nothing. My experience and knowledge isn't useful, except as much as it can be twisted to learn new stuff. I can't *help* anyone, be useful to anyone, make anyone happy.
Instead, I have to ask for help with the most remedial tasks, distracting people from more important work, and feeling useless every time I do. I take four times longer than a proper programmer. I've checked, against the estimated times for my jobs. And even after that time, the result is rushed and low-quality.
It's been a long time since I've felt this low. Since I've cried, let alone in public (though I'm hoping it wasn't noticed).
I know: I need to get over myself, tell my ego to shut up, and relish this chance to improve and hone my skills and soak up this free education and training, no matter how painful, and become the great programmer that I feel I should be. And I will. I don't want anyone to ever have to make excuses for me again. I want to improve, and fast.
Just as soon as I get over the sting of this most horrible discovery, and grow to accept it instead: I'm not an awesome programmer, or a good one, nor even just a mediocre programmer, I'm a bad one, the kind who's work I have winced and laughed at in the past.