The symptoms are clear: hyper yet lethargic, focused yet distracted, gung-ho yet lazy. I’m not overwhelmed, not yet. And since nothing’s reached critical mass, I can put things, i.e., the program, off a little longer while ramping up my anxiousness about all I have to do.
So I organize. I draw up a list and prioritize. However, doing so often informs me that I’ve got even more extra time to kill before I really need to buckle down. And what do I do with all this extra time? Why, waste it, of course.
Step 10: continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.
And even though wasting time is perfectly acceptable as an act in and of itself, if I’m not enjoying it, then what’s the point? It’s because I’m not taking time for myself in a healthy, low-key manner, recharging the batteries and centering my head space. I often simply pace back and forth, literally on the floor or figuratively inside my brain, delaying, sidestepping, putting off, exaggerating.
Some of this behavior is definitely learned: at work, the faster I turn something around, the more time there is for endless, pointless, goal-less revisions and alterations. Putting things on the back-burner alleviates that; it forces people to focus on their projects and pay attention the first time around.
Some of this behavior is definitely bullshit: in the world, putting things off that directly affect me only causes unrest and low-level anger and self-loathing. It’s ignoring the candy wrappers and cigarette butts on my side of the street and waiting for the lost hub caps, used diapers and empty fast-food bags to pile up before grabbing a broom.
It’s because it’s small stuff, and I don’t want to sweat it.
But as an alcoholic, it’s often the small stuff that blows up the best.
Today: Go tell that guy who wrote that book to shut the hell up.