I'm a procrastinator. I have always been this. I have tried to break the cycle, but it is so hard. Everything else becomes so much more interesting when I have a project to do. Even this post is a form of procrastination as I have writing projects sitting on my desk staring me down. They lurk in my subconscious, quietly whispering "come to us; come work on us." And I ignore them, kind of. The guilt, though, ratchets up, the deadline looms closer, and I realize that, once again, I'm staring an all-nighter in the face. For the third time that week.
I thought I would be done with this kind of thing after grad school, or after being a student at least. But this isn't the case. Instead, I fall into the habit of put it off, work all night, see the sun rise, go to bed, sleep until 2:00 pm and then get up and start the cycle over. Sometimes bed isn't even an option. I have to push through, suck it up, and realize that this is completely a self-inflicted wound.
Perhaps this is part of why I wanted to work from home and worked so hard to be able to do it. I can keep weird hours only known to insomniacs, programmers, gamers, writers and students. There is a reason we are socially awkward. It's those weird hours. They do something to us.
The dark circles under my eyes are a permanent fixture. Sleep deprivation combined with allergies make me look bruised. I also feel bruised. There is a feeling in the body when it is running on no sleep. Everything aches, my skin hurts, I feel like a shell of myself. Sounds function differently, a bit too sharp, a bit too loud. My brain processes slower, sluggish. Dexterity fails. When I was younger, I would run into things or simply fall over because of this. Then I really was bruised. I would lose conversations within my head and start in the middle of one, completely confusing everyone around me. The irritability kicks in, and I am all sharp around the edges. Brittle in body and demeanor.
I remember my freshman year of college when I lost almost a full day. I was several days without sleep, and I kept finding evidence of things I had done but had no memory of. I found rice, completely cooked, in my microwave and had no memory of making it. A movie half watched on the computer, and no memory of it. I called people asking them if we had been together or if we had talked, only to have it confirmed that we had, in fact, spent time together. It was terrifying. A friend wondered if I had been given something. I hadn't. It was purely sleep deprivation. It was a terrifying realization.
I can understand this as a form of torture. Keep people awake long enough and their defenses quickly begin to erode. Three days in, and the processes aren't functioning. A week? I'm not even sure; I've never made it that long. The body, though, hates it and fights to sleep. Black spots--not sleep--just holes in the memory begin to form. One thought doesn't coherently connect to the other. Admit to whatever those questioning wanted, whether true or not.
Eventually I collect myself for a small change in the schedule, but I eventually slip back into the pattern. I don't even know if it is so much that I don't want to do the work as much as it is an inexplicable fear of sleep. If I go to sleep I give up control. I surrender the small amount of power I have, and weirdly that terrifies me. I'm not scared of the dark; I'm simply scared of the dreams I have--vivid, alive dreams that suck me in completely. I don't dream these things as much as I live them.
And so, I live with the bruises, both obvious and painting my skin and the hidden, aching pain.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
The February slumps
February always makes me low. It's the hardest month to struggle through: still broke from the holidays, it's dark, it's cold, the days are still short, and my body just wants to sleep (and sleep and sleep and sleep). It is hard to motivate, but in our world we have to motivate. February is a hinge month; we're gearing up for the next thing (spring, summer, tax season, whatever) and we need the energy to do this, but it's just. not. there.
I'm facing down big things right now, and I have to get them done, but it's soooo hard to do them. It's small steps at a time: write 50 words today, grade 3 papers this evening, apply for that 1 job, do this 1 project tonight. Even getting up, showering, making coffee, and dressing (in that order) are so damn difficult right now. I always think it's depression; I do not suffer depression, but these funks sure feel like it. Just let me stay in bed. Everything feels like it weighs a ton. I feel like I'm moving through water, forcing that foot to step, that food to be eaten, that word to be typed. I don't stagnate, I just simply slow down. Significantly.
It's also the month of indecision for me. I need to go to bed; I don't want to go to bed. I feel whiney, whimpery, and childish. I want to throw tantrums (about what I don't know) and I just don't have the energy. I'm angry that it's winter still, but I resent the flowers that are already appearing in my yard (it's too early, stupid flowers; you're going to die!). I am resentful and angsty. For no good reason! It's truly bizarre. And it happens every year. And each year, I can't figure it out until someone reminds me that it's the February funk. "What's wrong?" can only be met with "I don't know. Things just feel...off." Then I suffer through the "ugh, I'm a terrible person because there is nothing really even wrong and I'm complaining." It's a nasty spiral. Blerg.
I think it's probably good that I don't have a full-time, in-office required kind of job life. I'd use all of my sick/personal leave in February. As it is, I just sit and give the papers and things needing grades the stink-eye. "Go grade yourselves," I mutter as I give them a good shove. Write yourself, blog (yeah, we've seen that this blog is not self-motivated to write itself...stupid blog).
I'm facing down big things right now, and I have to get them done, but it's soooo hard to do them. It's small steps at a time: write 50 words today, grade 3 papers this evening, apply for that 1 job, do this 1 project tonight. Even getting up, showering, making coffee, and dressing (in that order) are so damn difficult right now. I always think it's depression; I do not suffer depression, but these funks sure feel like it. Just let me stay in bed. Everything feels like it weighs a ton. I feel like I'm moving through water, forcing that foot to step, that food to be eaten, that word to be typed. I don't stagnate, I just simply slow down. Significantly.
It's also the month of indecision for me. I need to go to bed; I don't want to go to bed. I feel whiney, whimpery, and childish. I want to throw tantrums (about what I don't know) and I just don't have the energy. I'm angry that it's winter still, but I resent the flowers that are already appearing in my yard (it's too early, stupid flowers; you're going to die!). I am resentful and angsty. For no good reason! It's truly bizarre. And it happens every year. And each year, I can't figure it out until someone reminds me that it's the February funk. "What's wrong?" can only be met with "I don't know. Things just feel...off." Then I suffer through the "ugh, I'm a terrible person because there is nothing really even wrong and I'm complaining." It's a nasty spiral. Blerg.
I think it's probably good that I don't have a full-time, in-office required kind of job life. I'd use all of my sick/personal leave in February. As it is, I just sit and give the papers and things needing grades the stink-eye. "Go grade yourselves," I mutter as I give them a good shove. Write yourself, blog (yeah, we've seen that this blog is not self-motivated to write itself...stupid blog).
Friday, February 15, 2013
The Lenten season give-up
For Lent this year, I decided to part ways with Facebook and bread products. The bread thing already fell through with JaCiva's cupcakes and petit fours, but Facebook is still on. With giving this up, my goal is to focus on writing more, so expect some blog posts over the next forty days!
Thursday, February 14, 2013
The lot was cast and then I drew, And Fortune said it shou'd be you.
There have been a few discussion in my life lately regarding marriage and why and how people choose to make this leap and stay together. My mother says it's a covenant for her, friends fall in love and marry for love, some marry for the green card, others for practical reasons. I'm watching numerous friends and family plan to marry and listening to the hopeful ways they think marriage will play out. I'm also watching the first of friends divorce. Engagements are such a hopeful thing, rather idealistic, and so full of promise.
The number these days seems to be that 50% of marriages fail in America. We rely on love--that funny, fleeting, belly dropping, swoony feeling--to coast by on, to drive our sex lives, to make us feel wanted, needed, and oh-so-special. We have friends who married in the "bunny-hump, baby-I can't-get-enough-of-your-hot-body" phase. And when that fades? They wonder what happened, awakening from this drunken, hyper-sexualized place they've been in. And it's a magical, wonderful place. You lose weight, you glow, you feel amazing. And then life hands you a big ole' wake-the-hell-up dose of reality at some point. Hello!
We've been lucky in our relationship. We work hard to be happy and have taken drastic measures to do this at times (our moves are often related to this). But we've been rather careful, too, in the decisions we have made to keep us afloat. We don't have children; we haven't bought a house; we have odd jobs that allow us to be together and take off suddenly the way we want. We are carefully plotting and planning the next phase, our next steps. We have worked hard for what we have. We had hand-me-down furniture for the first seven years of our marriage. We were broke for most of the thirteen years we've been together. We didn't rush into things (some might say the marriage, but I don't think so: we didn't live together before, we didn't have a shotgun wedding, but we did get married young). We never followed the Joneses or needed everything others had. We didn't jump on bandwagons (kids, houses, cars, boats, dogs, and whatever else). We created our own goofy little niche.
We married for practical reasons. We also left the caveat in our relationship from the beginning that if life took us different ways, we'd be ok with that. We got married because taxes, school, and things like that made more sense to navigate together. We also really liked each other. We got along splendidly (we still do), and we had and have a very healthy dose of respect for each other. I used to think people found someone who could put of with their BS, but now I think it may be more that you find someone who respects your BS and helps you figure it out.
We spend a lot of time supporting each other. Not a day goes by that I am not told that I am loved. Not once, not twice, but many times each day. Not a day goes by that I don't say I love you; again, many times over. Sometimes I need a gentle reminder to put the computer/Kindle/book/distraction away to pay attention to who is right in front of me. And behind that gentle reminder are the words telling me how smart, creative, interesting I am. I don't seek this, but good grief, in a life that batters, tramples, and can be down right difficult and deflating, it's nice to have someone remind me of that, and to remind him of it, too.
It's Valentine's Day--a holiday we generally don't celebrate. Instead, we celebrate our meeting. Thirteen years now. And that is a long time and no time at all. We've left some stages behind us, but we've found balance, longevity, and a comfortable place to be. No games, no hidden agendas, no faking the single life (ugh, please stop doing this, other people), no friends to keep up with. We still get annoyed with each other, we still fight. Our fights, though, are ridiculous and so self-deprecating, and I've had to break up with tequila because of this. It's not a pretty sight when I'm a mess, his feelings get hurt because I'm picking on the way he cut the limes, and I'm crying that things are so great that the only thing I can pick on is how to cut the damn limes for Coronas. Yep, ridiculous, embarrassing in hindsight, and kind of (admittedly) cute (even though I did not look cute with my wobbly eyes).
I didn't expect my marriage to fail (who does?), but I am a pragmatist and a realist, and I knew that the possibility was always there (it is for every relationship). I'm also stubborn as hell, though, and not afraid to fight for the things I want. I know what works and doesn't work for my relationship, and I suppose that's the secret, isn't it? Patience, respect, and a huge amount of humor seems to get us through most things we've faced thus far, and I imagine it will be these things that sustain us.
Addendum: I came across this again today and felt others might enjoy reading it. I read it years ago, sitting in a quiet library in the heart of a cold Colorado winter. It's enough to warm you through:
http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2006/02/true-love/slater-text/1
The number these days seems to be that 50% of marriages fail in America. We rely on love--that funny, fleeting, belly dropping, swoony feeling--to coast by on, to drive our sex lives, to make us feel wanted, needed, and oh-so-special. We have friends who married in the "bunny-hump, baby-I can't-get-enough-of-your-hot-body" phase. And when that fades? They wonder what happened, awakening from this drunken, hyper-sexualized place they've been in. And it's a magical, wonderful place. You lose weight, you glow, you feel amazing. And then life hands you a big ole' wake-the-hell-up dose of reality at some point. Hello!
We've been lucky in our relationship. We work hard to be happy and have taken drastic measures to do this at times (our moves are often related to this). But we've been rather careful, too, in the decisions we have made to keep us afloat. We don't have children; we haven't bought a house; we have odd jobs that allow us to be together and take off suddenly the way we want. We are carefully plotting and planning the next phase, our next steps. We have worked hard for what we have. We had hand-me-down furniture for the first seven years of our marriage. We were broke for most of the thirteen years we've been together. We didn't rush into things (some might say the marriage, but I don't think so: we didn't live together before, we didn't have a shotgun wedding, but we did get married young). We never followed the Joneses or needed everything others had. We didn't jump on bandwagons (kids, houses, cars, boats, dogs, and whatever else). We created our own goofy little niche.
We married for practical reasons. We also left the caveat in our relationship from the beginning that if life took us different ways, we'd be ok with that. We got married because taxes, school, and things like that made more sense to navigate together. We also really liked each other. We got along splendidly (we still do), and we had and have a very healthy dose of respect for each other. I used to think people found someone who could put of with their BS, but now I think it may be more that you find someone who respects your BS and helps you figure it out.
We spend a lot of time supporting each other. Not a day goes by that I am not told that I am loved. Not once, not twice, but many times each day. Not a day goes by that I don't say I love you; again, many times over. Sometimes I need a gentle reminder to put the computer/Kindle/book/distraction away to pay attention to who is right in front of me. And behind that gentle reminder are the words telling me how smart, creative, interesting I am. I don't seek this, but good grief, in a life that batters, tramples, and can be down right difficult and deflating, it's nice to have someone remind me of that, and to remind him of it, too.
It's Valentine's Day--a holiday we generally don't celebrate. Instead, we celebrate our meeting. Thirteen years now. And that is a long time and no time at all. We've left some stages behind us, but we've found balance, longevity, and a comfortable place to be. No games, no hidden agendas, no faking the single life (ugh, please stop doing this, other people), no friends to keep up with. We still get annoyed with each other, we still fight. Our fights, though, are ridiculous and so self-deprecating, and I've had to break up with tequila because of this. It's not a pretty sight when I'm a mess, his feelings get hurt because I'm picking on the way he cut the limes, and I'm crying that things are so great that the only thing I can pick on is how to cut the damn limes for Coronas. Yep, ridiculous, embarrassing in hindsight, and kind of (admittedly) cute (even though I did not look cute with my wobbly eyes).
I didn't expect my marriage to fail (who does?), but I am a pragmatist and a realist, and I knew that the possibility was always there (it is for every relationship). I'm also stubborn as hell, though, and not afraid to fight for the things I want. I know what works and doesn't work for my relationship, and I suppose that's the secret, isn't it? Patience, respect, and a huge amount of humor seems to get us through most things we've faced thus far, and I imagine it will be these things that sustain us.
Addendum: I came across this again today and felt others might enjoy reading it. I read it years ago, sitting in a quiet library in the heart of a cold Colorado winter. It's enough to warm you through:
http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2006/02/true-love/slater-text/1
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