Friday, April 10, 2009


Everything I do, everything I say is disingenuous.

It seems that my paralysis has seeped into every facet of my life; for I can’t even string coherent sentences together; thus the sight of a blank post template makes me slightly panicked. I can’t write! There is too much to say. Too much to do elsewhere. And I am so overwhelmed that I can do nothing. I am frozen in time. I can read and watch reality TV. I can escape; and I can make lists. But my lists are superficial. They read: Drop off dry cleaning. Make car payment. Buy groceries.

They never get to the root of the problem. The reason for my lethargy. Am I depressed? Am I in the throes of a quarter-life crisis?

I want to talk about Egypt. I want to post that Jordan was an extraordinary country; that we had an amazing time despite a myriad of challenging – and sometimes frightening – situations.

It’s all true.

But I can’t write it.

There is too much else in my brain, and it jumbles around and I can’t be bothered to make sense of it all.

“Maybe I should see a therapist,” I say to J, after a particularly grueling argument regarding my failure to send my city taxes in by J's April 10th deadline (which I agreed to, after postponing the date multiple times). J roared, and I bolted. I got in my car and decided I would drive to the mall. (I quickly nixed that plan once my mind cleared a bit and I remembered that I loathe shopping.)

I drove. And I thought. I attempted to get to the heart of it; to think long and hard enough to reach into my soul, and find the day it began. As if there was one single day in my life – maybe I was three? – when I decided the answer to life’s problems and nuisances was to stick my head in a book. If it overwhelms you, Lissa Jean, tune it out. Do nothing. Come sit here; read Where the Wild Things Are and escape awhile, won’t you?

“I don’t think you need therapy,” J says, not unkindly.

If I must read, it might as well be self-help, eh? I have highlighted most of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Overcoming Procrastination. Most – not all.

I never finished the fucking book.


So I make another list, and I check off the little things. But I completely miss the point. I can’t see the bigger picture. I can’t apply to grad school, because I can’t take the GMATS, because I can’t find time to study. Because if I study, and I fail, I might have to hold myself accountable! Better to see what is happening on The Biggest Loser. Then I will be inspired to change my life; then I will create another list. I’ll tell myself firmly: I’ll start tomorrow.

Yes, tomorrow. Tomorrow is my drug of choice. Tomorrow is looming; but right now? Right now I can sit on my couch and drink this cabernet.

So you wanna be a writer, kid? Well, publish one fluffy feature with a local paper (last November!), and call it a day.

You got published! Now, take a load off. Take a hot bath. You’ll come up with another good idea tomorrow.

My situation is dire. I am rapidly running out of twenties, and I need to be better. I need to do better. I need to be more.

And yet my head feels heavy with the weight of it all.

I am ready to begin again. I am ready to press reset and right the wrongs, all the wasted hours. I am not sure how to do that, but I have an inkling that the first step is being honest, writing it down.

And, of course, hitting the publish button.

Here goes.


Grace said...

Dude. I hear you are the starting anew theory. From a tangible perspective, I have done the same thing every year, for the past FIVE years, with my patio furniture. Spend hundreds of dollars on a NEW patio set on the first warm April day and swear to the high heavens I will bring it inside at the close of the season. All winter long I watch as my once brand new and beautiful patio set feels the wrath of the Mother Nature through rain, snow, and this year, a severe hail storm. It was literally blowing around the backyard. (I mean really, Beth, you could have at least put the umbrella down to hinder the force with which it continually hit the picked fence.) But I just watch. And do nothing. And pretend nothing is happenning. This saddens me. But then again, it is suppossed to be 74 on Saturday.... hmmm.

I also wrote this comment to avoid doing my presentation that is due at 530 pm today. It is a vicious cycle. And it must be stopped.

The other day, on Good Morning America, I learned procrastination is a disease and victims (that's us) need to be clinically treated to overcome it. Their analogy was "Telling a procrastinator to 'just do it' is like telling someone who is deppressed to 'just cheer up.'" It hurts my head to think of how they'd treat a depressed procrastinator...maybe I should see a doctor.

Homevalley said...

Dude - I just laughed out loud. A depressed procrastinator spells disaster. Try telling J that it is a disease next time you come for dinner. He doesn't buy it; but I think the power or my blog is starting to make him understand...

We must change our ways! You can totally borrow the Idiot's Guide. After a finish. This time I will.