Discoveries and rediscoveries
Feb. 24th, 2005 09:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kiralamouseThis will probably be a really long entry, so I'm cutting it (and splitting it in two) - but I think it may be well worth reading. This is depressing-part. I'm gonna post another entry about what followed.
Most of you who know me know that I'm a champion procrastinator. Whether it be papers, exams, getting places, cleaning... whether it be devotions, prayer, getting up and doing that good deed I've been meaning to do... ah, there's time. Well, not so much time, but it's not too late yet, I can squeeze it in, no problem. Well, maybe I can't, but hey, it's not the end of the world, right?
I've come to the realization that procrastination is like alcohol. Most people indulge somewhat, but it can become dangerously habit forming. And yesterday, I came to realize that I'm a procrastiholic.
I've been thinking for the past couple years that I'm going to stop now, that I'm going to shape up. My last night in London was spent frantically typing up an 8-10 page history paper that had really been due two days previous. I was in the lab at the school until 5 AM, and then had to choose between walking twenty minutes through predawn London on no sleep, or not being able to pack in time to go home. I realized this was miserable and pointless. I've realized it before, and it didn't take me too long to forget the realization.
But something stuck. Something of that depression, of my desperate homesickness, whatever it was - it became associated with long assignments for me. I began to discover that I could no longer pull papers together at the last minute. Where I used to effortlessly spin out a page of writing in an hour of time, it was taking me days to wrestle with a paragraph. I said it was the length that intimidated me. After all, that semester I was being required to write papers twice as long as I was used to. I'd just allow a bit of extra time. And for the most part, I was okay. Sure, I missed a couple deadlines. The real blow didn't strike until the end of the year.
The twenty page history paper. I don't write twenty page papers. I don't write history papers. I didn't even realize until five o'clock in the morning on the day it was due that the reason I was getting nowhere was that I didn't have a topic. I didn't have a topic, and it was five AM. And I was to do a presentation on it, too, in class, and together they were worth half my grade. By ten o'clock, I was in tears, completely broken down, and I couldn't bring myself to face my professor that afternoon. Had to call my parents; as expected, Dad was supportive. Mom was also supportive, but I could hear the lost tone in her voice as she tried not to say, "But why didn't you just work on it earlier?" Or maybe it was my imagination; I've always been more afraid to admit failure to my mom. I didn't work on it earlier because I didn't want to. And I didn't know how to convey the depths of my not-wanting-to to anyone, so I said it in fancier terms like "I couldn't settle down," "I got distracted by other things," etc. Oh, and "poor time management" in my journal. I didn't mention how the poor time management was driven by... something else. I was scared of that sucker. By my math, 50% is the best grade I could have scraped, and that's a failing grade. Thanks to divine intervention, my prof's bad math skills, or some unforeseen merciful streak in said prof (I suspect a combination of the first two, but hey, who knows?) I got a D in the class. At least I was still a "student in good standing," and my other classes were good enough to raise my GPA.
But of course now I'd learned my lesson; I wouldn't do that again. Last semester, I was off to a good start. Except that I ran late on every single one of my papers, even the 4-5 page ones. I managed to turn in most of my assignments mostly on time, but with one professor,of course not the Chaucer one, I found myself taking advantage of his lenience and waiting... and waiting... for days, sometimes. And I felt guilty for taking advantage. But I figured I'd done most of my job, and hey, the procrastinating prof doesn't need special consideration that way.
This semester, I'm taking no chances. Well, okay, I can't afford my books, so I fall behind at the very beginning of the year while I'm straightening things out. But I'm bound and determined to make this one work. So after weeks, I finally work to the top. Huzzah! And I've learned that last minute papers make me panic, and that I freeze. So with this Donne paper, I very carefully plan in advance. I especially don't want to treat this energetic, friendly, but stern prof the way I treated my laid-back one. I go to office hours, discuss the topic a week before the paper is due, plan how I'll write two pages a night till I'm done. But then I have three tests that week to study for. Well, no big deal; I'll just eat into my weekend cushion. But a couple lonely nights early in the weekend make me depressed, and I put it off. Uh oh.
Monday morning, when the paper is due, I've only got three pages written (out of seven to nine), and I'm stopped dead. I resolve to manfully (womanfully?) face my problem, attend class, and explain matters to my prof afterward. I'll do it carefully. I won't beg for mercy, I won't whine, I'll just apologize for being late and ask how he wants me to turn it in. See, clever way to ask for a new deadline without having to indicate how long I think it'll take. And I do - but he's very serious, but supportive, asks how much I've got done, how long I think it'll take (I don't know), says try to have it in by Thursday, ask for help if you need it. Thank you, God, I won't flunk this class, at least.
Yesterday... well, you can see my entry from yesterday morning. I had made effectively no progress, and I was panicked again. What had gone wrong? Why was I unable to work? (The elephant, by the way, was the panic, not the paper.) I realized I'd hit a block, hadn't even gotten past my old one, and so I braved trouble again to go to my professor's office hours.
I hate confrontation. I hate admitting failure. I hate letting authority figures know my weaknesses. I figure making it into that office ought to qualify me for a knighthood or something. I managed to keep my voice mostly level and, I think, my face mostly clear for the discussion. You have a lot of great ideas, my prof said eventually, you've got your paper. I know, I'm just stressed about it and then I get blocked.
Have you had this problem for a while? (Geez, I'm thinking, can I really talk about this? Well, he asked, it's not begging for excuses.) So I start to tell about that London night and all of a sudden my control
breaks. I manage to keep enough
not to collapse sobbing, but
there's definitely tears streaming down my cheeks
and my voice is rough and my throat is tight and
oh, no, he's trying to comfort me,
I don't want him to worry about me,
I don't want special treatment,
I just want to take responsibility like a decent human being.
I apologize to him; I'm not usually this emotional about this, I'm just tired.
(And now it occurs to me that I what I meant to be reassuring - "I'm not really this upset" - may have sounded more like embarrassment - "Why did you have to see me like this?" And maybe both are what I was feeling.)
I don't really hear while my prof is telling me how he'll work with me on this, it's okay, "I'm sure you'll do fine on this. You've got a lot of great ideas, you're a really good student in class" (am I really? Or am I just what I feel like, little clever girl, good at the quick one-line summation but covering a deeply shallow mind on the more important stuff? and total flake on responsibility...) I don't really hear all this because I'm busy throttling down my emotions until I have space to deal with them and I'm not asking my prof to be my therapist. Ask for help with assignments, sure. Ask for help with a psychological difficulty... no. Allowances are bad enough. I got myself into this pit; shouldn't I be able to get myself out?
I manage to calm down enough to straighten my face and voice and wrap up, and thank my prof, and thank God that I have such an understanding prof. And then promptly to head to the girl's bathroom. Because I don't want to be sobbing across campus.
Some minutes later, I realize that a quick cry is not going to get it out of my system, and I'm tired of blowing my nose on paper towels. So I take a couple deep breaths, wash my face, and compose myself. Not too shabby. Grab a drink from the fountain. But the sobs are still threatening to surface every time I think about it so I will not think until I get back to my room. I head down the stairs I will not think until I get back to my room and just try to I will not think until I get back to my room keep level... this isn't so bad... I might stop by the bookstore (but that would be procrastin-I will not think until I get back to my room). And I realize that any thought at all might drive me to hysterics but I will not think until I get back to my room. God, please help me keep calm; oh, isn't it a lovely day? Thank you, God, for sunshine and a fresh breeze. (They're so much nicer than being stuck in a claustrophobicI will not think until I get back to my room). I try to breathe, to suck up some of the bright warmth of the sun and unclench my insides, but that starts to dangerously free I will not think until I get back to my room. Finally, I reach the safety of my room.
And cry for the better part of an hour. I'm a failure. I fail to do things on time, always, and I'm an awful person for treating it so lightly, and always needing special treatment, and I can't call my mommy because it's the busy part of her day and she always makes me feel more responsible anyway, and there's this sensation which I recognize as pure, unadulterated fear. So I'm afraid, but geez, it's my own fault, and God why am I such an awful person, it's not a big thing, sure, but shouldn't that mean I should be able to do the right thing instead of always always always screwing it up, and I'll never get a job if I have to be honest and say I always always always screw up, and I'm a failure, and I'll be a failure, and who knows whether it'll be better in ten years because there won't be another ten years, there's no time beyond now now now and awful guilt and shame and now is a month from now, six months from now, and I'm still a failure and I'm afraid of it and being afraid makes me fail and failing makes me afraid and GOD IT'S NOT FAIR! Why does it work like that? And why can I not just break the stupid stupid cycle like a sensible person - I hate it when people refuse to act sensibly - but you can't make yourself feel sensibly, and why not? Because what I feel is keeping me from thinking, keeping me from doing anything but feel this awful void of wrong.
And I cried, and caught myself hyperventilating - no, I can't afford a panic attack, I've never had one but I know I can't afford to start, because when you start having a problem there's no going back and it becomes this loop you can't get out of to save your life and nothing will help I don't care what they say, they don't know, they can't know anything about this awful wrongness.
For my readers, I apologize if that got confusing. And I'm sure it got depressing, because although I've felt depression before, this was my first encounter with a depression so deep I couldn't conceive of anything else. Even now, I'm still kinda scared that I didn't hit bottom yesterday, because every time I think I hit bottom, I fall still worse the next time. But that's not the important part. The important part comes up next. Because The Slough of Despond is only at the beginning of the story.
Most of you who know me know that I'm a champion procrastinator. Whether it be papers, exams, getting places, cleaning... whether it be devotions, prayer, getting up and doing that good deed I've been meaning to do... ah, there's time. Well, not so much time, but it's not too late yet, I can squeeze it in, no problem. Well, maybe I can't, but hey, it's not the end of the world, right?
I've come to the realization that procrastination is like alcohol. Most people indulge somewhat, but it can become dangerously habit forming. And yesterday, I came to realize that I'm a procrastiholic.
I've been thinking for the past couple years that I'm going to stop now, that I'm going to shape up. My last night in London was spent frantically typing up an 8-10 page history paper that had really been due two days previous. I was in the lab at the school until 5 AM, and then had to choose between walking twenty minutes through predawn London on no sleep, or not being able to pack in time to go home. I realized this was miserable and pointless. I've realized it before, and it didn't take me too long to forget the realization.
But something stuck. Something of that depression, of my desperate homesickness, whatever it was - it became associated with long assignments for me. I began to discover that I could no longer pull papers together at the last minute. Where I used to effortlessly spin out a page of writing in an hour of time, it was taking me days to wrestle with a paragraph. I said it was the length that intimidated me. After all, that semester I was being required to write papers twice as long as I was used to. I'd just allow a bit of extra time. And for the most part, I was okay. Sure, I missed a couple deadlines. The real blow didn't strike until the end of the year.
The twenty page history paper. I don't write twenty page papers. I don't write history papers. I didn't even realize until five o'clock in the morning on the day it was due that the reason I was getting nowhere was that I didn't have a topic. I didn't have a topic, and it was five AM. And I was to do a presentation on it, too, in class, and together they were worth half my grade. By ten o'clock, I was in tears, completely broken down, and I couldn't bring myself to face my professor that afternoon. Had to call my parents; as expected, Dad was supportive. Mom was also supportive, but I could hear the lost tone in her voice as she tried not to say, "But why didn't you just work on it earlier?" Or maybe it was my imagination; I've always been more afraid to admit failure to my mom. I didn't work on it earlier because I didn't want to. And I didn't know how to convey the depths of my not-wanting-to to anyone, so I said it in fancier terms like "I couldn't settle down," "I got distracted by other things," etc. Oh, and "poor time management" in my journal. I didn't mention how the poor time management was driven by... something else. I was scared of that sucker. By my math, 50% is the best grade I could have scraped, and that's a failing grade. Thanks to divine intervention, my prof's bad math skills, or some unforeseen merciful streak in said prof (I suspect a combination of the first two, but hey, who knows?) I got a D in the class. At least I was still a "student in good standing," and my other classes were good enough to raise my GPA.
But of course now I'd learned my lesson; I wouldn't do that again. Last semester, I was off to a good start. Except that I ran late on every single one of my papers, even the 4-5 page ones. I managed to turn in most of my assignments mostly on time, but with one professor,
This semester, I'm taking no chances. Well, okay, I can't afford my books, so I fall behind at the very beginning of the year while I'm straightening things out. But I'm bound and determined to make this one work. So after weeks, I finally work to the top. Huzzah! And I've learned that last minute papers make me panic, and that I freeze. So with this Donne paper, I very carefully plan in advance. I especially don't want to treat this energetic, friendly, but stern prof the way I treated my laid-back one. I go to office hours, discuss the topic a week before the paper is due, plan how I'll write two pages a night till I'm done. But then I have three tests that week to study for. Well, no big deal; I'll just eat into my weekend cushion. But a couple lonely nights early in the weekend make me depressed, and I put it off. Uh oh.
Monday morning, when the paper is due, I've only got three pages written (out of seven to nine), and I'm stopped dead. I resolve to manfully (womanfully?) face my problem, attend class, and explain matters to my prof afterward. I'll do it carefully. I won't beg for mercy, I won't whine, I'll just apologize for being late and ask how he wants me to turn it in. See, clever way to ask for a new deadline without having to indicate how long I think it'll take. And I do - but he's very serious, but supportive, asks how much I've got done, how long I think it'll take (I don't know), says try to have it in by Thursday, ask for help if you need it. Thank you, God, I won't flunk this class, at least.
Yesterday... well, you can see my entry from yesterday morning. I had made effectively no progress, and I was panicked again. What had gone wrong? Why was I unable to work? (The elephant, by the way, was the panic, not the paper.) I realized I'd hit a block, hadn't even gotten past my old one, and so I braved trouble again to go to my professor's office hours.
I hate confrontation. I hate admitting failure. I hate letting authority figures know my weaknesses. I figure making it into that office ought to qualify me for a knighthood or something. I managed to keep my voice mostly level and, I think, my face mostly clear for the discussion. You have a lot of great ideas, my prof said eventually, you've got your paper. I know, I'm just stressed about it and then I get blocked.
Have you had this problem for a while? (Geez, I'm thinking, can I really talk about this? Well, he asked, it's not begging for excuses.) So I start to tell about that London night and all of a sudden my control
breaks. I manage to keep enough
not to collapse sobbing, but
there's definitely tears streaming down my cheeks
and my voice is rough and my throat is tight and
oh, no, he's trying to comfort me,
I don't want him to worry about me,
I don't want special treatment,
I just want to take responsibility like a decent human being.
I apologize to him; I'm not usually this emotional about this, I'm just tired.
(And now it occurs to me that I what I meant to be reassuring - "I'm not really this upset" - may have sounded more like embarrassment - "Why did you have to see me like this?" And maybe both are what I was feeling.)
I don't really hear while my prof is telling me how he'll work with me on this, it's okay, "I'm sure you'll do fine on this. You've got a lot of great ideas, you're a really good student in class" (am I really? Or am I just what I feel like, little clever girl, good at the quick one-line summation but covering a deeply shallow mind on the more important stuff? and total flake on responsibility...) I don't really hear all this because I'm busy throttling down my emotions until I have space to deal with them and I'm not asking my prof to be my therapist. Ask for help with assignments, sure. Ask for help with a psychological difficulty... no. Allowances are bad enough. I got myself into this pit; shouldn't I be able to get myself out?
I manage to calm down enough to straighten my face and voice and wrap up, and thank my prof, and thank God that I have such an understanding prof. And then promptly to head to the girl's bathroom. Because I don't want to be sobbing across campus.
Some minutes later, I realize that a quick cry is not going to get it out of my system, and I'm tired of blowing my nose on paper towels. So I take a couple deep breaths, wash my face, and compose myself. Not too shabby. Grab a drink from the fountain. But the sobs are still threatening to surface every time I think about it so I will not think until I get back to my room. I head down the stairs I will not think until I get back to my room and just try to I will not think until I get back to my room keep level... this isn't so bad... I might stop by the bookstore (but that would be procrastin-I will not think until I get back to my room). And I realize that any thought at all might drive me to hysterics but I will not think until I get back to my room. God, please help me keep calm; oh, isn't it a lovely day? Thank you, God, for sunshine and a fresh breeze. (They're so much nicer than being stuck in a claustrophobicI will not think until I get back to my room). I try to breathe, to suck up some of the bright warmth of the sun and unclench my insides, but that starts to dangerously free I will not think until I get back to my room. Finally, I reach the safety of my room.
And cry for the better part of an hour. I'm a failure. I fail to do things on time, always, and I'm an awful person for treating it so lightly, and always needing special treatment, and I can't call my mommy because it's the busy part of her day and she always makes me feel more responsible anyway, and there's this sensation which I recognize as pure, unadulterated fear. So I'm afraid, but geez, it's my own fault, and God why am I such an awful person, it's not a big thing, sure, but shouldn't that mean I should be able to do the right thing instead of always always always screwing it up, and I'll never get a job if I have to be honest and say I always always always screw up, and I'm a failure, and I'll be a failure, and who knows whether it'll be better in ten years because there won't be another ten years, there's no time beyond now now now and awful guilt and shame and now is a month from now, six months from now, and I'm still a failure and I'm afraid of it and being afraid makes me fail and failing makes me afraid and GOD IT'S NOT FAIR! Why does it work like that? And why can I not just break the stupid stupid cycle like a sensible person - I hate it when people refuse to act sensibly - but you can't make yourself feel sensibly, and why not? Because what I feel is keeping me from thinking, keeping me from doing anything but feel this awful void of wrong.
And I cried, and caught myself hyperventilating - no, I can't afford a panic attack, I've never had one but I know I can't afford to start, because when you start having a problem there's no going back and it becomes this loop you can't get out of to save your life and nothing will help I don't care what they say, they don't know, they can't know anything about this awful wrongness.
For my readers, I apologize if that got confusing. And I'm sure it got depressing, because although I've felt depression before, this was my first encounter with a depression so deep I couldn't conceive of anything else. Even now, I'm still kinda scared that I didn't hit bottom yesterday, because every time I think I hit bottom, I fall still worse the next time. But that's not the important part. The important part comes up next. Because The Slough of Despond is only at the beginning of the story.
