Nuts. I have to write about why I’m not doing my notes. It’s so very odd.
I have, maybe, a half hour of copying and pasting from one set of notes I’ve already taken into the software that records the notes. I don’t have to do them well because I’m new. I don’t have to invent anything new or complicated to say. There are templates. I don’t even have to take my computer out of my backpack and get set up, it’s just there 3 feet away waiting to be opened.
Why didn’t I just get up and do the notes? Why does thinking about doing the notes give me a sense of butterfly-anxiety. My stomach and balls literally get tingly at the prospect of “just doing” the easy thing that I have no “rational” reason for not. I’ve showered, made coffee, dicked around online, eaten candy, and am now writing this. It’s so familiar a feeling and yet I have not figured out how to “best” it beyond talking about how confused I am that it happens at all.
My first thought is that it’s simple. I just don’t want to. That’s a pretty strong and consistent part of my being that I listen to regularly. I don’t want to fucking do it. I don’t care about it. I don’t get a sense of accomplishment or meaningful positive feeling by engaging in it. It provokes thoughts about how it could be just a little bit better and efficient. This software is great, by the way, relative to the trash I’ve encountered across so many companies. There’s always poorly conceived redundancy and bugs built into things, but if you have to choose, this is the one to go with.
Part of it too, this is my “off” day. I’ll compound the irony. On my “on” days, I’m not really doing anything. The expectation is I do nothing in an office waiting around for a virtual group session. I’ve slept in on the days I work from home. Also, I work from home half the time, and have still managed to go to every concert or event, even when they theoretically happen “during my work hours.” I got paid this morning $1400 to spend, arguably, 3 or 4 hours doing any sort of “real” work. Of course, my time, headspace, and wear-and-tear on my truck are all real variables and part of the sacrifice for the money, but I’m not physically exhausted nor mentally overwhelmed in a manner that would preclude my ability to get this task done.
What’s at stake, I think, is the overall principle on how, when, and why I’m exercising my time. My plight makes very little sense if you don’t put time at the center of what’s important to you. I’ve already spent a considerable amount in service to “I don’t want to do it” tasks as it pertains to this job. I didn’t want to drive to Bedford for no reason and sit alone in a room for 8 hours. I don’t want to be in meetings where my boss vibes to the sound of her own voice. I don’t want to linger at the end of group as the counselor I’m incredibly frustrated by tells me I can reach out to her if I have any questions. I don’t want to spend time sorting through “resource” and “spreadsheet” and “updated yada yada” for things that don’t pertain to my job responsibilities. But I have, in my “on” time.
Now? Now, when I’m pretending to be “free” of the obligations of work, here’s a dare to keep pressing right up against the disquiet in holding the position at all. I don’t want a “real” job. I say that a lot. I mean it every time. I don’t want to be told what to do by people I don’t respect. I don’t want to waste my time, even if I make an outsized effort to ensure, if nothing else, I’m getting TV and books wedged into the space that would otherwise be dead air.
I’m already conceiving of the corner I wish to back myself into in order to get the work done. We have 48 hours to input notes. That means I have until 11 AM tomorrow. You know a better time to do notes? Midnight, when I have nowhere else to go, nothing else on my mind, and I’ve danced around the ground I’ve reclaimed for a few hours. My ambivalence to their timely input neatly matches their ambivalence to how they utilize my time or set their expectations. They don’t deserve me “at my best” or my “do it now” propensity. I feel entitled and confident that I can meet the expectations, and navigate the worst-case scenario even if I am wrong.
But it’s more than that. I don’t enjoy that kind of entitled thinking. It makes me nervous and anxious, which, aren’t “me” in a very real sense. I was raised to fear, extremely, breaking the rules. So much of this feeling is likely predicated on that vague suggestion that I’ll be “in trouble forever” or courting the destruction of my stuff or ass (phrasing!) by not complying. I know the rules, after all, and I know the rules are not-exactly arbitrary, but arbitrary and used as a pretext to punish somewhat indefinitely. I know it like I know how to be back-hand slapped.
I wish I never felt like this. In my perfect sense of my own being, I’m never anxious for no or childhood-trauma reasons. I could just do it because things made sense. Or I could just not because that makes a certain kind of sense as well. I wouldn’t have to write 2 pages and pause on the feeling in my gut as it spits out words that hopefully quell the feeling. It’s the lie. It’s the lie at the heart of existence that’s constantly nagging. I’m not safe in a job that isn’t mine. I’m not safe in the pretense of entitled thinking and all I might “get away with.”
No matter how much I own, do, write, or implore, I’m not in charge, I don’t have the control, and something is lurking to shuffle me back into place. At least debt is a tangible, graspable number I can reduce or manifest as stuff. This feeling, though? This feeling that if I stop this right now and just do the task I’ll have conceded or…died or killed or been fundamentally broken by my circumstances…I don’t want to be nagged by it all day, but it’s been nagging me, warning me, my entire life. If I don’t fight it or understand the nature of it, I’m ruled by it. Even while writing this I’ve oscillated in feeling like I just want to get it done and “fuck it.” I started writing this in an effort to get it done because I know I often can’t do anything I could or “should” until I do.
What’s at stake? My dignity? My independence? My long-term prospect of playing along at my job just enough to pay off debt? Nothing. Whether I post this and immediately do it, or wait till midnight, nothing matters. Rephrased, it’s never going to represent something meaningful to me or meaningful to engage in. It’s just a thing, like so many things I could be doing, that represents a nagging feeling I can’t escape, tied to so much baggage. I’m over here trying to “fix” or “quell” the feeling like it isn’t based on abuse. You can’t fix abuses of your being by “politely” or “routinely” engaging in things that abuse your being, no matter how obscure or normal they’ve become.
The otherwise whole of my existence is attempting to refute the patterns of abuse and wastes of time. Each dive into the “normal” ways of things denies my being. Every time I “meet expectations,” I fail in otherwise testifying and demonstrating what I’m actually capable of. My “beliefs” about efficiency manifest as capitalizing on ticket sales and gorging myself on musical experiences after otherwise reducing my monetary obligations over the last 3 years. I’m literally building the environment I live in with salvaged wood and tires and an ethic that I can learn and create independently. We’re still working to actually run our actual out-patient clinic that does exist and is certified to collect money and provide the services I’m doing for another fucking company, because our medical and insurance systems are rooted in abuse.
I’m anxiously obligated to abuse myself because the alternative is what feels like an impossible never-ending fight to be recognized and respected for doing or saying something better. Instead, you get attacked, ignored, and invited to forget how to even suggest you might otherwise conduct yourself. Do I feel like abusing myself right now? Not more than I feel like taking a shit and watching The Boys until my dad gets here. See you at midnight, whip.
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