Written months ago...
Not about the farm...
Since retiring, my morning routine has been to get my coffee and sit in my recliner to check out the morning websites and messages. A few weeks ago, I set a goal that this time would only be ONE HOUR, otherwise I can go down a rabbit hole, napping, reading and looking up truly unnecessary things.
"I need to clean that table off, get a tablecloth on it, put my shoes away, put things away, and water those plants." Seems simple, but then my mind wants to build a pathway - "I'll take my shoes, the craft supplies, the new prescription and the seed potatoes in one trip, and on my return I'll grab the tablecloth and watering can." Okay, that's a plan. And then the breakdown starts - "But I need to finish my project in the barn, weed the flower gardens and change the sheets." Again, simple, but the spiral has tightened, and I can feel me wanting to retreat to staying in my nightgown and reading all day, albeit a beautiful late spring day for working outside. Unfortunately, from here, my mind with a mind of its own, decides to darken the situation with questions - "What's wrong with you?" "Why is it so hard to put stuff away?" "How many days are you going to look at that?" And before long, it is obvious that I'm going to sit right here, with no intentions at all for the day.
For three years, I have made every excuse in the book for not getting our new home in order. First, it was truly the grief of going through my parents' belongings; it was a physical pain that wouldn't even allow me to look at or hold them. Next came the overwhelming feelings of what to give, what to keep, what to donate, what to throw away. I have made piles, rearranged those piles like deck chairs, and managed to give, keep, donate and throw away a very little bit. Now, it is all just a stone around my neck because I know it has to be done, and I feel ashamed that I could make it all happen with about a month of hard work. Frank notices, tries to help or encourage, but I don't react politely. Leave me alone with my guilt and shame.
I wanted to believe I was a procrastinator. I told myself that I did better under pressure. I always got the job done - what was the big hurry? You all know where that attitude leads to!! As long as I had a schedule and a list, I got it all done. I keep a weekly diary, and honestly, that is working better than most other strategies, but when I review the last month, I see that I continue to move undone items to the next week. Some of those items are weeks old.
I've read and read about procrastination. Purchased apps and study guides (I didn't finish), and pretty journals. I'm not sure I'm procrastinating - I'm avoiding all together those lists and chores. And life. I've slowly come to the conclusion that it is about fear. Fear of failure is easy, but it is more about fear of disappointing someone, not doing a good enough job, and on and on. My confident, get shit done, keep it rolling outward persona, is afraid of being. Not being good or helpful, just of being.
This fear is real and paralyzing. It has kept me safe, fully padded from imagined and real hurt. It masquerades as other emotions. It has created issues with my children. It has gained a foothold in my life, somewhere long ago, and plays a bigger part every day. I have an idea where fear of disappointment and fear of not being good enough took hold and grew, but the overwhelming idea of who I am in the face of these feelings, not so much. So, I did the thing that has scared me so much for so long, I made an appointment with a therapist.
What I learned in that first appointment: A. I'm going to like my therapist. She cussed first. B. Acknowledgement is not agreement. It is just saying, "I know." C. I saw a fragile thread that connects so much in me. and D. This is going to be a difficult, sad, and painful experience. But oh so needed! So much to unpack - to give, keep, donate and throw away.
Postscript: It is working. 💜
