It has come to my attention that I have created an unhappy person in my team, due to my constant pressure for getting results. Or in other words that-thing-managers-have-to-do. This poor soul has gotten to the point of contemplating resignation as a result. F#ck him.
There are a few things you need to know about me, I love my kids. I love my wife more. I like to take photo’s. I love to write. I hate slackers. I have a built-in intolerance for incompetence.
Work = pressure. If comes with the territory. When you’re in a war and you’re expected to shoot people, if will be very difficult for you to achieve results when you suddenly start growing a conscious or go to your commanding officer, crying over the reality of war. You’ll end up in shit so deep, you probably would never be able to clean yourself again, ever. So the choice is obvious, if you don’t like killing, then don’t become a soldier.
If you can’t handle the heat, get out of the kitchen because you’re in my way. Don’t talk about running with the big dogs, when you still expect mommy to wipe your nose, and you still piss like a puppy. And for heaven’ sake don’t blame your own inability to perform on unhappiness, because the boss, that’s me, were mean to you over the phone. (As I am typing this I am actually still in shock due the fact that this could come out of the mouth of an educated, twenty-something adult) What did he expect? It’s not kindergarden anymore.
Another interesting thing about me, is the fact that I am not perfect. Weird, I know. When I am confronted with a new situation, highlighting one of my apparent flaws, I actually consider the viability of the claim being true. Case in point, being an unreasonable manager. Do I make people unhappy? It is my job to make people happy? If not, who’s job is it?
Happiness is a concept most of us understand. It’s not just the excitement of Christmas morning, or the thrill of packing for the summer holiday. It’s a feeling of content, in inner peace that makes you smile for no apparent reason. A blissful glee. I have that. I am blissfully happy. Why wouldn’t I be? Awesome wife, great children, amazing friends.
Happiness doesn’t make me soft or allow me to drop my standards. Happiness makes me an effective human being, not necessarily a nice one. As a corporate manager I have a duty to ensure results. I am being paid to make sure my team perform on an expected level. Granted, when you’re unhappy it might cause you to be less effective in your responsibilities, but who’s job is it to make sure you’re happy? In a corporate environment where pressure and stress is synonyms for efficiency, is it my responsibility to dry your tears when you’re having a bad day? It is my job to make sure mommy packed your lunch and it’s not peanut butter and jelly sandwiches everyday?
I am trying my best NOT to sound like a heartless bitch. There are obvious times when sympathy is required, especially if I know the person is in a zone where days are dark and friends are few.
The problem I have with ensuring other people’s happiness is that I don’t think one can. I believe happiness is something we have to achieve ourselves. It’s a goal you have to chase on your own. Bad things happen everywhere and to everyone. No-one is spared because in each life some rain must fall. But being happy, that is your own responsibility. It’s your choice, it comes from within. Only YOU can make YOU happy.
Would I change my behaviour now that I know that my actions makes someone unhappy? Probably a little. Would I release some pressure on an individual knowing that it makes him unhappy? HELL NO.
If you feel your unhappiness stems from the fact that I am driving results too hard, then it’s not only unfair, but plain bull shit. Please note dear unhappy employee, your failure to achieve results is making me unhappy too. But I am trying to do something about it. Maybe you can learn something here. Grow a pair and stop running around like a little girl complaining about your own right to happiness. Stop blaming other people for your failures. Stand up and proof me wrong. For that’s what I would do.
I am not your mother, I am not your therapist, I am definitely not your guardian angel. I am your boss. So accept that or resign.
(Whilst typing, the writer hears the cheers and clapping echoing from the bleachers, where all his colleagues are sitting, whom are sick of hearing the complaints and tired of having to carry dead weight.)