Here’s my dilemma. Maybe that’s the wrong word. But I can’t think of a better one. [That’s telling. My inability to write is so strong that I can’t even find the word I need.]
I’ll just explain myself now.
Sometimes at night as I lie in bed reading on my phone, I feel a little motivated. Inspired, even. My mood is lifted. I’m not skipping around in a field of flowers blowing sunshine out my ass or anything. My mood is never lifted that much. But feeling even a little bit motivated and inspired does wonders for my well-being.
I’ll lie there between chapters coming up with all sorts of projects I could do around the house or ideas for writing stories. Most of the time, I even write these things down. And I actually feel like I can do them—the house stuff and the writing. But not at 1 – 2 – 3am. Tomorrow. I can do them tomorrow. These feelings come from around 11pm until I fall asleep. Terrible as it is, lately sleep comes between 4 and 5am.
Then morning comes. Well, it’s already morning. But I mean my ‘morning‘ which is around 11 since by the time I finally fall asleep, the birds have started chirping and traces of sunshine are peeking through my windows. Unless it’s not a sunny day. But you get the picture. My alarm goes off, which I set only because I have no idea when the hell I’d wake up without it, not because I have any reason to wake up.
When I hear the alarm, I grab my phone and silence it. I continue reading for a while, picking up from where I left off when I dropped my phone on my face when I finally fell asleep in the wee hours of the morning. Why don’t I get out of bed right away? Because I don’t see the point. I feel empty. Gaping hole inside me. I have nothing to do.
Right. I have plenty to do. All those projects and ideas I had before I fell asleep. Those things. But it’s morning and every trace of motivation and inspiration I felt at 2am is long gone. My lifted mood has taken a nose dive. Does sleep murder those things? That’s a violent image. I think I might be really fucked up. No, I’m sure I am.
Eventually, I do drag my lazy ass out of bed. And I am most definitely dragging. I don’t want to be out of bed. It’s such a chore. All of it… getting up, showering, getting ready for my empty day. I do the things I have to do. You know, dishes, cleaning, other random mom stuff. I feel like I’m only doing the minimum. Probably because I’m only doing the minimum.
Why does the motivation, the inspiration, the decent mood come at night like that? At night—when I’m not going to get up and reorganize my kitchen cabinets… or write… or paint the bathroom… or dust and vacuum… or clear out old books and clothes? And why is the motivation and inspiration and decent mood gone when I wake up and could [and should] do these things? Do I feel motivated and inspired at the wrong time because my brain knows I won’t do anything about it at that time? Is this another cruel joke the powers-that-be are playing on me? Some fucked up torture?
I’m an analyzer. I want to know why this happens. I don’t know if it’s because I think knowing the reason will help me find a solution or if it’s just a mystery to solve. I don’t know if knowing why would change anything. But it kills me that this is how it is. Every damn day.
It’s not even just the loss of motivation, inspiration, and decent mood. In the morning… during the afternoon… it’s not just that I’m missing those things. I’m also missing, well, everything. I am empty. Purposeless. Bored. Sad. Lonely. Alone [not literally, yet still alone].
If I have something I absolutely have to do outside the house—somewhere I have to be, my mood isn’t as bad. Motivation and inspiration have still gone to hell, but I feel okay-ish. Unfortunately, I haven’t had anywhere to be due to stay-at-home recommendations… and due to my life being empty. The answer to the mood thing is clear: leave the house every day. Problem is, unless I *must* be somewhere, I can’t motivate myself to go out.
Last week, I had a routine appointment with my doc that was actually not canceled [like most things have been for months]. And I felt human that day. I wore a little make-up for the first time in nearly three months. No lipstick because, really, what’s the point while wearing a mask? And I had a nice chat with my doc, who I adore, about kids and life and whatever else came up.
The next day, I took my son to karate. His instructor has started having very small classes. Like, only four kids and him all spread out in the studio. Even though it was just giving my kid a ride, grabbing a coffee, and picking him up, it was something I had to do. [Well, not the coffee, I guess. I didn’t *have to* do that. No, I take it back. Yes I did.]
Mom says I should go out for coffee every morning as though it’s an appointment. But it’s the same problem I keep repeating. My brain knows it’s not required so I can’t motivate myself to do it. Plus, I really don’t need to drop money on coffee every day. I have tons at home already. I know where she’s coming from, though. I need a schedule and I need to stick to it. But, again, not required = no motivation.
It sucks that I have to be forced to leave the house. What the hell is wrong with me? I mean, really. If I *know* something is going to make me feel better, why can’t I just fucking do it? Being productive… accomplishing something—anything—gives me a lift… and sometimes a trace of that motivation and inspiration comes with it. I wish there was a pill for that. The motivation and inspiration pill. Sign me up!
I have a theory.
I carry a tremendous amount of guilt because I don’t have a job. This is not a pandemic-related situation. I got laid off a long [loooong] while back and never found a new job. [And gave up and can’t really not be around now for various reasons that I won’t bother detailing.] Because of this guilt, I feel awful during the time I ‘should‘ be at work… when I used to be at work—daytime. I’m justified in being home in the evenings and at night so I’m better during those times.
However, this doesn’t explain the weekends. I’m ‘justified‘, to use my own word, in being home on the weekends, but I feel terrible anyway. Maybe that’s husband-related. He irritates the hell out of me a lot of the time. But he’s also home in the evenings and at night so why are the weekends different? Maybe the longer he’s around the more annoyed I am. You may laugh. I just did.
And the other part of my theory… the part about not being able to do what I know is going to make me feel better—
I’ve never been confident, but at this point, I’ve lost all sense of self-worth. I feel like a waste of a human. I think I’m subconsciously punishing myself, and that’s why I can’t bring myself to do things even if I know they’re going to make me feel better. My subconscious doesn’t think I deserve to feel better.
Of course, these theories don’t change a damn thing. So maybe I don’t really have a question here. Maybe I’m just explaining myself for no apparent reason. Maybe I just wish I had someone who could hold my hand and make me go places and do things. Like, literally drag me out of bed, take my hand and pull me out the door. Maybe I just wish I had someone. Period.
Who the fuck knows?
p.s. — This post was born from a draft from last November. That’s right, seven months ago. I had these thoughts then. I still have them now. That’s just fucking fabulous… seven months and nothing has improved. I’m the best human ever. So amazing and well-adjusted.
p.p.s — Damn, I disappear for a month and when I come back, I write a fucking book. If only I could write an actual book. You know, my romance novel… not this psychobabble.
©2020 what sandra thinks