Progress of a Sort is Made

Having recently begun writing my book about the . . . er . . . good times at the phone company, I find I have already run into a problem.  (Besides discovering a proclivity for writing in the passive voice too much.) I remember when I left the company on my last day, carrying my little cardboard box with its meager contents to the elevator for the parking garage; I was happy. Glad to get the fuck out of there. Now, a little over ten years later, after nurturing all those happy thoughts--not unlike the ones you carry concerning "happy days" at high school, when the truth was it was years of tedium combined with injustices and petty annoyances (P.E. is so-ooo stupid) --I find, upon a little digging, that most of my time at the phone company was unpleasant.
I suppose, like life, when you're at work the happiness is in the fleeting moments.  Otherwise, nobody really likes having to sell half of their waking hours to a soul-less corporation and then take orders from someone whose authority seemed to have come from some inscrutable, random process having more to do with politics and ass-licking than any real qualifications for "managing" subordinates. Yeah, the phone company likes the word subordinates. Don't get me started. They also, when referring to a mistake during a safety review, call that a deviation. When the union once tried to refer to dangerous neighborhoods as "red zones," the company started calling them "awareness zones." See what I mean? Drives you nuts.
Without any other clues, I decided to begin the book by dredging up stories in a more or less chronological order. That has its pitfalls, I'm discovering. In a random universe (such as ours) chronological order is actually chaos, and some other kind of imposed order might make more sense.
But it's a place to start. The problem is that in re-remembering the succession of events of my career, I find myself remembering a lot of unpleasant things--things about which one might reasonably say they would "never want to through that again." Yet, here I am.
But it's not so bad, I guess. Yet still bad enough so that if I am to continue, I may have to come up with a good reason to write this book--a purpose, you might say, to help me maintain my momentum. I don't want readers to cringe, but truth is a worthy pursuit in writing, if it's not boring.