I find myself…so fucking angry that I have to follow a schedule.
It’s funny, really. Because how absurd is that?
But I tell myself, “You have to make a to-do list, and complete that to-do list. Even if you can’t do anything else. Even if you don’t accomplish every little thing you should be accomplishing. If you can make a to-do list–even if it has only 4 items on it, and you can complete it–you will be okay.”
Because if I can do that, and it turns into a habit, I can put anything on that list.
It worked. It worked for 2 days.
Then I stopped making the list. I don’t know why. I really couldn’t tell you why.
But I know that something in me REBELS against it. Something in me FIGHTS it.
And there’s something in me that fights everything like that.
I don’t know why. I don’t know why, but that Thing, inside me–that “other me”–she doesn’t want to be on time, to anything. There is something in me that positively rejects the idea of being on time.
Although I know that it’s ME, the way it feels is something more like that I want to be on time, but some other part of me refuses to “let” me be on time. It’s so weird! I don’t know how to explain it!
I wonder if it’s just because I’m bored.
It’s like, my higher self or whatever goes, “Okay, you can shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, and start driving in time to be 15 minutes early for work. Then you could calmly set up your station and clock in at exactly the right time.”
And at that, my brain goes, “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Nooooooo! Not the same thing that happened yesterday! Not the same thing that happened yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that…and which will happen tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that! That’s too predictable! No!”
And then I proceed to somehow sabotage myself so that I’ll be late, without really wanting to be late!
The weird thing is, this doesn’t happen when there’s a crisis, or when I’ve just gotten in “trouble” for being late. It’s like the adrenaline, the importance, the needing to somehow miraculously come from behind, and speed to work at 90 miles an hour without getting pulled over–that stuff somehow already makes it interesting. It’s miserable, but it’s not boring.
So maybe my rebellion against routines is just some kind of boredom. And this existential fear that I’ll keep doing the same things over and over again and suddenly wake up, and I’ll be 80, without watching the time go by.
That’s all for now.
~Gail
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