Procrastination
Procrastination.
It’s that feeling of overwhelming guilt and frustration that we’ve all experienced at one time or another, the knowledge that such a daunting task could never be completed no matter how quickly you slave away at it. A cloud seems to be hanging over your heart while a tornado rages within your mind. Whatever you’re trying to accomplish suddenly becomes vital to your survival, while all else is dropped from existence. Suddenly global warming and the ozone layer aren’t half as important as what you’re working feverishly on finishing.
It’s trying to type out that update you promised your readers before you leave on a month-long vacation, but it’s an hour before your flight leaves and you can’t seem to shove the million other things you should be doing out of your head. You want to make it as good as you can, but at the same time you know between cramming a moth-eaten sweater in your suitcase and trying to think of a half-decent plotline, it’s not going to be up to the par of your writing. And you start to kick yourself for making such an impossible promise, or for even posting the accursed thing in the first place. Then you get to the airport and discover that your bag is two pounds overweight thanks to that sweater (the one you won’t need because you’re going to Florida).
You swear to never do it again.
It’s writing out each letter of that essay even though your hand muscles are burning from the pain and begging for you to stop, alongside the fact that it’s 2 AM and your brain is screaming for sleep. You want to shoot your teacher for making you write it by hand- in that miserable blue pen you’d rather use to gouge out her eye. And you start to realize that trying to shove another gulp of Mountain Dew down your throat while writing out the main plot points of Macbeth isn’t such a good idea, and you have to make a decision to either start from scratch or hand in a wrinkled, half-dissolved, green-stained piece of paper that smells sickly sweet.
You promise yourself to not let it happen a second time.
It’s sitting in front of the row of ebony and ivory keys and slamming your face into the sheet music before you, wishing you had practiced the mundane three-page song during the past two months that you’ve had it instead of spending so much time holding mindless conversations with your friends online. You end up hitting a nonexistent chord with your angry fists, and you think it sounds better than the notes you’ve been trying to plod through for the past two hours.
It’s knowing you can do it but still falling short of your abilities. Being fully aware that you’re capable of accomplishing your task, but going into a full-fledged panic attack when you start to realize just how much you need to do.
It’s finding yourself unable to breathe when you think of the consequences: a lost subscriber and a missed flight; a churning stomach, bloodshot eyes, and a barely-nudged B–; a small round of pity applause and the wish to fold yourself into the floor and disappear from the world.
And then-
Your instincts take over and find yourself taking a break. You’re traveling to the only website where you can find solace and visiting the profile of someone who’s glowingly commented your stories even when you thought they were total crap. You see a small box of text labeled with your username and read how much they wish they could be like you. You start to feel a twinge of guilt for ever doubting yourself.
You save the file and turn off the computer before heading out the door at a calm walk.
You pull the best conclusion you can out of the air and collapse into bed with a sigh.
You sweep the sheet music aside and play the one song you know by heart.
You convince yourself that there will be time to finish, despite all the odds pointing against you. You take a slow, lung-filling gulp of air and feed your brain the oxygen it needs and calm down your nerves. You face the consequences with the bravest mask you can put on.
Maybe you end up crying.
Maybe you end up punching the wall in frustration.
Maybe you even go further.
But when it’s all said and done, and you realize you’ve gotten through it, you feel your heart swell with pride in your work.
You decide you need a long break.
And the cycle begins again.
It’s trying to type out that update you promised your readers before you leave on a month-long vacation, but it’s an hour before your flight leaves and you can’t seem to shove the million other things you should be doing out of your head. You want to make it as good as you can, but at the same time you know between cramming a moth-eaten sweater in your suitcase and trying to think of a half-decent plotline, it’s not going to be up to the par of your writing. And you start to kick yourself for making such an impossible promise, or for even posting the accursed thing in the first place. Then you get to the airport and discover that your bag is two pounds overweight thanks to that sweater (the one you won’t need because you’re going to Florida).
You swear to never do it again.
It’s writing out each letter of that essay even though your hand muscles are burning from the pain and begging for you to stop, alongside the fact that it’s 2 AM and your brain is screaming for sleep. You want to shoot your teacher for making you write it by hand- in that miserable blue pen you’d rather use to gouge out her eye. And you start to realize that trying to shove another gulp of Mountain Dew down your throat while writing out the main plot points of Macbeth isn’t such a good idea, and you have to make a decision to either start from scratch or hand in a wrinkled, half-dissolved, green-stained piece of paper that smells sickly sweet.
You promise yourself to not let it happen a second time.
It’s sitting in front of the row of ebony and ivory keys and slamming your face into the sheet music before you, wishing you had practiced the mundane three-page song during the past two months that you’ve had it instead of spending so much time holding mindless conversations with your friends online. You end up hitting a nonexistent chord with your angry fists, and you think it sounds better than the notes you’ve been trying to plod through for the past two hours.
It’s knowing you can do it but still falling short of your abilities. Being fully aware that you’re capable of accomplishing your task, but going into a full-fledged panic attack when you start to realize just how much you need to do.
It’s finding yourself unable to breathe when you think of the consequences: a lost subscriber and a missed flight; a churning stomach, bloodshot eyes, and a barely-nudged B–; a small round of pity applause and the wish to fold yourself into the floor and disappear from the world.
And then-
Your instincts take over and find yourself taking a break. You’re traveling to the only website where you can find solace and visiting the profile of someone who’s glowingly commented your stories even when you thought they were total crap. You see a small box of text labeled with your username and read how much they wish they could be like you. You start to feel a twinge of guilt for ever doubting yourself.
You save the file and turn off the computer before heading out the door at a calm walk.
You pull the best conclusion you can out of the air and collapse into bed with a sigh.
You sweep the sheet music aside and play the one song you know by heart.
You convince yourself that there will be time to finish, despite all the odds pointing against you. You take a slow, lung-filling gulp of air and feed your brain the oxygen it needs and calm down your nerves. You face the consequences with the bravest mask you can put on.
Maybe you end up crying.
Maybe you end up punching the wall in frustration.
Maybe you even go further.
But when it’s all said and done, and you realize you’ve gotten through it, you feel your heart swell with pride in your work.
You decide you need a long break.
And the cycle begins again.