Skip to main content

I can't help wondering if it'd just be easier....

Wait, what was I supposed to be doing, again....?

Showering? Vacuuming? Making myself a (healthy) dinner? Finishing the laundry? Stripping my bed and remaking it...? Getting my student loans consolidated.....?

Oh, wait, that's right. I'm blogging.

So I told on myself to the sponsor. I told him I've been quite willfully lazy the last couple of days--I keeping having obvious 3rd step moments, and when it comes to turning it over and taking right action...I choose lazing off and indulging in whatever distraction's most readily available instead.....

What's especially painful/prominent about this all is how easy it would be to do something right & responsible instead of opting for willful laziness again & feelling shitty for it. I'll have as big an opportunity to switch directions as having a cigarette between one distraction and before starting another, and I'll realize...I should do something, like get up and walk the dogs or clean the litterbox. Or pray a bit for the strength to push back my anxiety just long enough to get something done for once.

You know, turn it over. Take action. Something.

But I won't even get halfway through forming such a thought, such a prayer, before I feel the lure of laziness, the ease of malaise. Nap, just a little...or do something...anything...or nap, easy as that, just a bit of a nap...or do something, even something gratifying like working out and sexifying up....but I'm tired and don't feel well and don't want to think about this, I guess it is.....

And I'll go curl up in bed. And nap.

If I'm sleeping, or watching a movie, or perusing the endlessness of the internet, I don't have to think so much. I can ignore the constant, harsh chatter of my mind and enjoy false serenity.

Which is where things start to get weird. It's like I feel slightly indignant to have considered anything else but indulging myself. It's like I relish the laziness, the relief, the personal "freedom"--the sense of "control" it lends me. It's closely guarded. I even get a little angry somewhere inside when my mom asks me to do things around the house--as though she were imposing on my rights & me-time. I never say anything about it to her, of course, that would require doing things and probably arguing or talking things out. No, I just avoid doing them as well & easily as I already avoid doing anything else I'm supposed to be doing.

Like, even now, I'm supposed to be showering--or at least dressing myself decent--so I can go out to a meeting and get outside my head for an hour or two at least. But I feel pulled back toward my bed....

It's so tough sometimes. Action requires decisions, which entails considerations and complexity. Inaction is an oblivion. If I've lost myself to a nap or the internet, I can stop worrying, for now, about all the whatevers.

Ironically it's an oblivion that still requires so much work, so much effort. At my worst, I have to pay attention to when there's no one in the kitchen (right above me) before getting food. I avoid showering because that requires me to go up to the 2nd floor--right past my parents' room. And of course I have to fight more and more shame and worry every day as I push off more responsibilities. It helps that I'm forgetful/ADHD. If I stop thinking about something for as long as 5 minutes I'm liable to forget it for maybe 5 hours. But of course it always comes back, haunting....

Goddamnit. I don't even want to finish this post. I don't want to go do shit. I just want to curl up in my warm bed with my kitty and sleep a long while. >.<

But, it's already been set in motion. It's what I need to do. I need to be around people. Hear their voices. Consider their thoughts and lives and find some perspective. Do something to get outside my head. Or I might hole up here for a much longer while.

So, here I go...

I hope there's cake.


Other things that might interest you...

This moment: A tattoo.

So I read Mrs. Dalloway in high school, and it was perhaps the most beautiful thing I'd ever read. One passage in particular, very early in the book, hit me hard with my first experience of the sublime, and stayed with me—and led at last to my first tattoo.
In people’s eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.  (Emphasis added; full paragraph included below. From the full text of the novel as made available by the University of Adelaide.)

The paragraph this is from, the 4th paragraph of the novel, is the 1st passage with the stream of consciousness the book is famous for; although self-limited here, the flow is no less gorgeous. In the passage, Clarissa is walking on a street to get those famous flowers herse…

Losing Doolittle.

I recently got to spend a few days at the lake house my family used to visit through most of my childhood; we no longer own it, and it turns out I missed it more deeply than I realized.

Anthony and I both got the week before NYC Pride off this year, so I contrived to get us a little time there. The cousins who own Greenshore gave Anthony and me permission to relax there for several days rather than just the 1 or 2 I had expected. Good god, I'm grateful for that.

I missed this place. Standing on the balcony, the porch, or the dock and looking out over the lake, I was reminded of the beauty and tranquility this lake represents for me. The meaning and memories, too.

This was always a place of solace and stability for me. We moved around a lot when I was a kid, but we always came back to this place. It had been in our family for generations before I was even born—if we'd been able to keep it, it would have been a solid 4 generations including mine. This was where I figured out I w…

Sarracenia 'Palmerpink.'

So I posted the other day about my rekindled carnivorous plant obsession—I mean, hobby. I mentioned, in passing, that I had "discovered" a possible cultivar, so here's the lowdown on what that means and what I meant.

The term "cultivar" is short for "cultivated variety," and signifies that a particular plant is so desirable and interesting that people want exact copies of it rather than simply seed from it. Some famous American pitcher plant (Sarracenia) cultivars include the legendary Adrian Slack, the massive Leah Wilkerson, and the classic Judith Hindle.

Part of how these come about is that, unlike horses x donkeys = mules and certain other hybrids, Sarracenia hybrids aren't sterile and can be crossed and recrossed without limit. Further, random chance can create crazy combinations of genes such that even hybrids between the same species—heck, even the same parents—can demonstrate quite the variety. More on that elsewhere.

Depending on how easy…