I’m sitting in a coffee shop right now, talking myself down from the edges of a panic attack.
For those new to my blog, I waffle between identifying as obnoxiously lazy and ridiculously over-scheduled. In those moments where I feel I’m not doing enough, I concoct diversions to occupy my time in what I think are productive ways. Then I look back when I’m drowning and wonder why I didn’t remember that life always has a way of filling that void, whether or not I make a conscious choice to do so. This week’s moment of “What the holy hell was I thinking” is brought to you by a chapter I’m writing.
Oh, I had lofty goals when I submitted the abstract 7 months ago. I was just finishing my Master’s, was still in school brain mode, and was immersed in my topic already. How hard could it be?
When it was accepted 4 months ago, I was given a 3-month period to get it written. No problem! I was finishing up a course, and had started job searching in earnest, but this was totally doable, right?
Except for the getting my kids back into the swing of school (which has been bumpier than average, even for us).
Except for some kid mental health stuff.
Except for the mental health break I had to enforce on myself because apparently immersing myself in all things rape culture isn’t really that good for me.
Except for the job search leading to my leaving the house at 9 and getting home at 9 or 10, much of my time taken up by transit between four workplaces.
Except for the ongoing job search because my four jobs don’t cover our expenses.
Oh hey, that doesn’t look like obnoxiously lazy when it’s all in one place. It doesn’t look like procrastination, or poor time management. It looks like life, and too much life for one person to navigate.
I’m now over a month past deadline, and it’s coming together. Slowly. If I can get beyond the anxiety that’s shutting me down, if I can just put one word on the screen at a time. I can do this. And I can do it today.
Deep breaths, big girl panties, here I go.