Monday, September 30, 9:45 AM
I may have finally cracked. Filled to the brim with thoughts and ideas and an immense amount of pressure that threatens to escape by way of self-destruction by implosion. It’s something that I’d like to think I could avoid if I simply prioritized a practice of writing. And not just journaling, for while I’m sure there is a plethora of source material to pull from in the many pages of the many journals I’ve collected and “thought out loud” in over the years, it’s not the same as writing something intended to be read.
I keep coming back to this thought: if I was strict with myself – really genuinely intentional – and sat down to organize my thoughts, fleshed out a trajectory of a timeline of my life and the biggest moments and experiences that define my existence in the world, outline this memoir project I’m apparently hellbent on completing, and just…started, would I feel differently – better – in my soul? If I put in the time, did the work – for as long as it took – and completed the goal (regardless of how long it would take) to not only write a book length piece of myself, but get it published, would it feel easier to breathe? To live without a sense of guilt gnawing at my insides, begging to be released? Obviously, since I have yet to whip myself into shape in this way and instead intentionally and subconsciously avoid these questions and ponderings by adding new and different things to my plate as a way to solve my unsettled feelings, I don’t know.
So, here is me starting another silly little idea that may or may not make it somewhere where people will see it. For at least a week, I’m pledging to get up and moving when my alarm says so, take care of the little duties here and there, and sit down to type out the feelings and thoughts usually only reserved for my journal for 15-20 minutes. (What can I say: feeling motivated and generally neutral about existing on Monday is next-level rare in Hannah world – might as well milk it while I can).
Tuesday, October 1, 9:33 AM
Maybe it’s the hot coffee that I’ve been drinking all two days of the week so far. Maybe that’s the secret to morning productivity: hot (or let’s be more realistic lukewarm) coffee opposed to cold. After all, isn’t the trope of iced coffee associated with the running-late girlies? The “I’m-super-cute-but-also-unhealthy-cus-I-don’t-drink-enough-water-and-sometimes-I-forget-to-eat” besties? Honestly, it sucks that that’s a stereotype (but mostly just because it applies to me and like the rest of everyone, I don’t particularly enjoy being called out unless I’m the one doing the calling); iced coffee is certainly superior when it comes to taste and temperature (at least when you live on the surface of the damn sun), BUT perhaps the original form of the most popular beverage across the world has something to offer in terms of effect.
Anyway, I’ve been writing about my coffee because apparently, all the sentences and general prose that float across my consciousness right as I’m about drift off at night is nowhere to be found (at least easily) in the morning…or, at the very least, this morning. So, as I watch my little visual timer eat more and more of my 15-minute dark turquoise block, I’m at a relative loss for meaningful words. It’s my least favorite occurrence when this kind of thing happens because as I have yet to get a strong and firm grasp on understanding the inner workings of my own mind, I will occasionally panic that I am out of words. That the talent and skill I honed for two years academically and nearly three in the professional world since has all but disappeared and I must resign to a life of a tortured has-been. I continue to remind myself this is untrue – as one can hardly lose something like words and the ability to string them together just by sleeping – but, I have yet to fully believe myself. Stay tuned.
Wednesday, October 2, 9:56 AM
Despite the fact that I wrote about this same (relatively speaking anyway) concept yesterday, it still never ceases to amaze me the way that the mind can fluctuate between constant ideation and silence; between something and nothing. It’s not that I have nothing on my mind, necessarily, but more so that throughout every day there are so many moments where I think to myself, “huh. This is probably profound in some way; I should remember this moment and what I’ve gleaned from it…” only to not write it down or make note of it in some way. And because this seems to happen virtually every day: these balloons of thought, amusement, and wondering popping up in my mind only to float juuuust out of my reach, it’s really no wonder it feels so cluttered and dark and scary in there.
I’ve written about this before, too, but I find myself struggling with whether or not I can call myself a writer when, all too often, I kind of… hate writing? (Shameless plug: this piece is actually the first of mine to be published; check it out here!) But then I think a little harder, dig a little deeper and ask myself if that’s actually true as I think of the moments when I’m struck with inspiration and my fingers can’t keep the speed of my thoughts (admittedly rare – especially lately) winding around themselves, spinning into gold as my fingers fly across the keys; the result a tapestry of me held together by my sentences.
I struggle with a lot of things. I’m distinctly aware of my place and privilege and the situation in which I live and still I struggle. Someday I hope to reach a headspace where I can let myself feel how I feel without feeling guilty and shameful for how much better I have it than so many others, to not gaslight, but rather embrace myself in these moments of hardship. In this context – my wrought and confusing relationship with my art and often most authentic version of myself – the struggle is twofold: intentionally psychoanalyzing oneself is challenging and exhausting and I have too many interests and hobbies and ideas for my own good and the time given to a singular day. Especially since I spend my workdays writing, why would I want to do the same in my free time?
My relationship with and understanding of my own self is intriguing to me. I’ve come to learn that I’m as good as you can get when it comes to thinking of things. I think all the time; I’m never not perseverating or hyperfixating or daydreaming or wondering about something. And while that is likely what makes me a good writer, it also exhausts and overwhelms me. I spend so much of my time and mental energy thinking and planning and wondering about future free time and all the crafts I want to start or the plants I need to water or the clothes I need to alter or the laundry or the dogs or the dishes or purging my clothes or going through stowed paperwork….that when I finally do have that time (and let’s face it: I work from home with a graciously flexible schedule, so time remains a silly social construct that I absolutely can bend how I see fit) I’m so worn out from the constant thrum of chatter and thought that I’d rather lose myself in someone else’s life (via a book or a show or, sadly, the deep dark world of social media) than live my own the way I want.
Thursday, October 3, 9:25 AM
Let me start by saying: being like, on it – which is to say, not snoozing my alarm, walking the dogs to the poop trash to dispose of their morning deposits (ew) as opposed to starting a crudely hidden pile of bags behind a dead potted plant outside our front door, committing to watering my plants, intentionally avoiding my phone and the ever-alluring draw of social media, etc., etc., etc. – is downright exhausting.
I had a good Monday for the first time in a long time: one where I actually colored my whole mood block light green, the color I’ve arbitrarily assigned to the vague and impossible to define “great.” And not only did I start the day with a will to live stronger and brighter than I’ve felt the last couple months, it lingered…carrying me through my day with a sense of ease. It was a strange and foreign feeling; one where I couldn’t help but wonder to myself all day, “Is this what ‘normal,’ regulated, neurotypical people experience? Every day?” I was on fire.
Ironically, a normal week for me looks something like this:
- Monday begins with me hating my life (a la Garfield) and fighting to find the effort required to do that which I do not wish to do: namely, work. But also normal human, dog mom, adult things. On Mondays, I’d rather just rot all day.
- Tuesday is better; the will to live and produce and simply exist in this dumpster fire of a world slightly higher than the previous day. It becomes ever so much easier to persevere through the brain fog and perform my job and other things.
- By Wednesday I’ve generally reached my desired homeostasis – the state of being that permits both productivity and pleasure. It’s a feeling of finally breaking through that fog and dread and irritation that until this day was all but a governing force in my mind.
- Thursday and Friday are interchangeable in how I feel and exist within them: at the end of the week, I know I’m that much closer to the weekend and thus the freedom from societal expectations and the ability to spend my time how I see fit. (Never mind the fact that I frequently overwhelm myself with just how I should pass the time because I’m never not overwhelmed by the never-ending possibilities).
But, all of this is ironic because this week – the one where I started out sprinting and feeling fan-freaking-tastic about myself – is having sort of an opposite effect. Having gone so “hard” and strong in the intentionality of achievement and having a reason to feel proud of and at peace with myself, I’m now a bit pooped. At least my afternoon walks with the boys are becoming a glimmer in my every day.
Friday, October 4th, 9:28 AM
Well, good or not, notable or silly, worthwhile or a waste of morning time, I have successfully made it to Friday and completed this teeny project/experiment I randomly assigned myself Monday morning. And I’m really proud of that. Though I don’t feel confident or necessarily proud of the content contained within these thoughts and musings, I am proud of my dedication to the idea.
Perhaps one of the most difficult and downright infuriating things about ADHD for me is the inability to stay consistent: a concept recently brought up in a company meeting and how consistency is the key to success. It’s one of those things where I frequently think to myself, “Hannah. It’s really not that hard to just do. Decide you’re going to do something (work/writing/general goal-related or not) and just like…do it.” And I try. I fight myself to stay focused, power through, do the thing.
Sometimes it works and I have a day like Monday where I am an UNSTOPPABLE force whirling around my day in a state of controlled, focused chaos. Most of the time, I get distracted by something or the dopamine-depraved goblin that governs my executive dysfunctioning has me reaching for my phone and opening Instagram for just a few hits of that sweet chemical to the pleasure center before I even realize what I’m doing. Often, I feel like I am not even in charge of myself and my decisions (which, scientifically, I guess makes sense seeing as how so much important activity is controlled by the mind’s executive functioning capabilities, which of course, I struggle with immensely).
Regardless, this is just me trying a lil thing for fun and practice…ya know, using my website for more than taking up valuable web real estate (which I will never be able to wrap my mind around) only to sit frozen and largely unused. To actually experiment with prompts and ideas and journaling practices as I intended when I embarked on this whole, “huh. I should totally be a writer!!” thing.
Stay tuned for next week; perhaps I’ll play with some prompts.
