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dragonlady7via http://ift.tt/2tU8Kib:
Having the last three days off to get myself in order, I had expected would be pleasant, but it wasn’t. I’d really wanted to go through my old original writings and see if any of them were something I wanted to work on next, but after a great deal of hunting, I’ve realized that although this temporary computer was supposed to have my last backup restored to it, Dude lost patience and in fact, basically none of my documents are on it.
Most importantly, my Documents folder is not on it. While I’d expected if you were going to only grab one folder, it would be that one, he told me he hadn’t thought there’d be anything important there, and since there wasn’t room, he hadn’t grabbed it.
There are 250 GB free on this hard drive. It turns out, he saw that I had 300GB of files, and just didn’t grab any.
Which is fine, but that’s not what he said, and so I spent about a day panicking because Documents contains all of my original writings from 1992 onwards, and while I have it backed up in like five places, none of them are accessible to me on this strange computer.
TL;DR this is the only time off I’m going to have for the forseeable future and I wasted all of it convinced that my life’s work was gone, so, clearly, I have not made any progress on that, nor have I written anything at all in like, forever, and I’m starting to feel like maybe I’ve never done anything in my life.
I can’t have days off from work, because I’m so conditioned to believe that if I have time to myself, spending it how I like is “wasting” it. I feel like I’m not “allowed” to have leisure. And so while I spent the times I wasn’t panicking over these last three days or so reading novels and working on embroidery, the entire time I was feeling wretched that I wasn’t getting more done.
I’d told Dude maybe I’d paint the spare bedroom and he got actually mad at me that I’d waste time on that instead of, I don’t know, nebulously “cleaning” the house, i.e. figuring out what to do with the amorphous mass of possessions that I clearly don’t know what to do with, and he definitely for sure believes I shouldn’t do anything other than deal with, ever, but Christ fucking forbid he offer an opinion or some guidance.
I wish I’d told him to go fuck himself and just painted the spare room, because it would be done now and I would feel really good about it and maybe it would have given me some ideas for the other rooms of the house. But I didn’t, and I will either be at work or at the farm for the rest of the summer, so I guess, fuck having anything done ever, and why do I pretend that I live in this house?
…
People have leisure. They watch television. I haven’t watched TV in decades because it just feels wrong, I get itchy, it’s a waste of time. I almost never read books because I can get the same satisfaction from writing and so I should do the latter because it’s not idleness.
People are allowed to not be productive for a minute. It’s like, a thing. People tell me I work too hard and should relax. But people, not the same people but people inhabiting the same reality, also tell me that I’m lazy and worthless and my lack of income is down to my lack of worth, more or less, and so I don’t see how those can both be true. So I stay busy every instant of my life.
The problem is that I’m so disorganized I never finish anything, so staying busy gets me exactly nothing, in the end.
Oh well, that’s what brainweasels do, I guess? I don’t know. I just know that I’m probably going to spend the rest of the summer kicking myself for not having gotten anything done this “vacation”, these three whole days I had to myself, one of which was spoken for already because I had to clean for houseguests. I’ve spent this entire day so jittery I can’t focus to finish anything, just like yesterday, just like the day before…
I want one project I can start and finish, but I can’t think of anything I could actually accomplish. That’s why I painted the thing I did yesterday, and I did do that, I did finish it, but now I’m left staring at it and realizing that it’s useless so what good did it do me to finish it??
Ugh everything is useless. There’s no point being productive when I feel that way, because it doesn’t matter what I get done, it’s not going to be satisfying.
This is why I spend so much time doing things for other people. If I do things for myself, I’m left feeling stupid because it was pointless. If I do things for other people, at least they thank me, and often are genuinely appreciative over the long-term.
Well, there’s that mystery sorted, not that it was a mystery. Self-care is pointless when your self is a stuck-up disgruntled bitch who doesn’t like anything.
Having the last three days off to get myself in order, I had expected would be pleasant, but it wasn’t. I’d really wanted to go through my old original writings and see if any of them were something I wanted to work on next, but after a great deal of hunting, I’ve realized that although this temporary computer was supposed to have my last backup restored to it, Dude lost patience and in fact, basically none of my documents are on it.
Most importantly, my Documents folder is not on it. While I’d expected if you were going to only grab one folder, it would be that one, he told me he hadn’t thought there’d be anything important there, and since there wasn’t room, he hadn’t grabbed it.
There are 250 GB free on this hard drive. It turns out, he saw that I had 300GB of files, and just didn’t grab any.
Which is fine, but that’s not what he said, and so I spent about a day panicking because Documents contains all of my original writings from 1992 onwards, and while I have it backed up in like five places, none of them are accessible to me on this strange computer.
TL;DR this is the only time off I’m going to have for the forseeable future and I wasted all of it convinced that my life’s work was gone, so, clearly, I have not made any progress on that, nor have I written anything at all in like, forever, and I’m starting to feel like maybe I’ve never done anything in my life.
I can’t have days off from work, because I’m so conditioned to believe that if I have time to myself, spending it how I like is “wasting” it. I feel like I’m not “allowed” to have leisure. And so while I spent the times I wasn’t panicking over these last three days or so reading novels and working on embroidery, the entire time I was feeling wretched that I wasn’t getting more done.
I’d told Dude maybe I’d paint the spare bedroom and he got actually mad at me that I’d waste time on that instead of, I don’t know, nebulously “cleaning” the house, i.e. figuring out what to do with the amorphous mass of possessions that I clearly don’t know what to do with, and he definitely for sure believes I shouldn’t do anything other than deal with, ever, but Christ fucking forbid he offer an opinion or some guidance.
I wish I’d told him to go fuck himself and just painted the spare room, because it would be done now and I would feel really good about it and maybe it would have given me some ideas for the other rooms of the house. But I didn’t, and I will either be at work or at the farm for the rest of the summer, so I guess, fuck having anything done ever, and why do I pretend that I live in this house?
…
People have leisure. They watch television. I haven’t watched TV in decades because it just feels wrong, I get itchy, it’s a waste of time. I almost never read books because I can get the same satisfaction from writing and so I should do the latter because it’s not idleness.
People are allowed to not be productive for a minute. It’s like, a thing. People tell me I work too hard and should relax. But people, not the same people but people inhabiting the same reality, also tell me that I’m lazy and worthless and my lack of income is down to my lack of worth, more or less, and so I don’t see how those can both be true. So I stay busy every instant of my life.
The problem is that I’m so disorganized I never finish anything, so staying busy gets me exactly nothing, in the end.
Oh well, that’s what brainweasels do, I guess? I don’t know. I just know that I’m probably going to spend the rest of the summer kicking myself for not having gotten anything done this “vacation”, these three whole days I had to myself, one of which was spoken for already because I had to clean for houseguests. I’ve spent this entire day so jittery I can’t focus to finish anything, just like yesterday, just like the day before…
I want one project I can start and finish, but I can’t think of anything I could actually accomplish. That’s why I painted the thing I did yesterday, and I did do that, I did finish it, but now I’m left staring at it and realizing that it’s useless so what good did it do me to finish it??
Ugh everything is useless. There’s no point being productive when I feel that way, because it doesn’t matter what I get done, it’s not going to be satisfying.
This is why I spend so much time doing things for other people. If I do things for myself, I’m left feeling stupid because it was pointless. If I do things for other people, at least they thank me, and often are genuinely appreciative over the long-term.
Well, there’s that mystery sorted, not that it was a mystery. Self-care is pointless when your self is a stuck-up disgruntled bitch who doesn’t like anything.
