I’ve been dreading today. It’s my self-proclaimed blog day and I feel like I’ve set myself up to fail. I dithered over what time to sit down and write this for probably as long as it would take to actually write the darn thing. And I’m still dithering over what to write about.
I’m reading Atomic Habits by James Clear and after much resistance in the vein of – ‘I don’t need some armchair pseudo-psyche quarterback of the football team turned successful entrepreneur to give me his tips on how to succeed in life’ – I’m actually quite taken by it. Reading it, I realise the time I spend dithering over decisions uses up a phenomenal amount of brain space. What time should I wake up? When shall I start work? Where should I work? What shall I work on? How long should I work for before walking the dog? Should I exercise today? If so when? Oh god, I can’t be bothered to do any of it, it’s all too much, I’m going to sit on the sofa and stare into space and think about how useless I am.
I could sit down and plan answers to these questions, sure, but there is absolutely nothing holding me to them. I tell myself I’ll wake up at 8, but I end up snoozing till 10, and who cares? No one. Except me – one of my weirdly disproportionate depressive triggers (and a symptom of that depression) is waking up late. It makes me feel ashamed and like I’ve failed at life. I think back to my university days when I struggled to get out of bed and it dawns on me that I was probably depressed back then too but didn’t know it. You’d think it’s an easy solve – just don’t wake up late. I know. So tell me, James, why is it so hard?!
James says, once you make something a habit you no longer expend valuable brain energy on it. I don’t dither about when to brush my teeth, or how long for, or whether I should brush them in the kitchen or the bathroom. And so without fail I brush my teeth every morning and night without thinking. Similarly, when I had a day job, somehow I didn’t find everything as difficult. Waking up, going to work, actually working, then leaving work was habitual.
I realise I can probably link my depression to leaving a day job. The collapse of structure resulted in a collapse of purpose, which led to a collapse of meaning. I was suddenly painfully aware of the great nothingness of this life. I’m a hamster who’s had a wheel my entire life, and now without it I’m darting frantically around the cage trying to work out what the hell to do.
The problem with theatre is that it’s so long term it’s hard to get perspective. When we finally got The Ministry of Lesbian Affairs in front of its first audience, I was on such a high it felt like I had taken all the drugs in the world. But it took nearly four years to get there. The next high is now possibly another four years away, if that.
Most days there’s nothing to motivate me other than the fear of pissing people off because I’ve missed yet another too-ambitious deadline I set for myself. There’s also a huge emotional cost. Writing a play is excavating a soul, smearing the deepest parts of myself onto a page in order, to be told it isn’t quite working and try again, rinse and repeat, for years until – sorry, no thank you, it isn’t for us.
This morning my alarm was set for 8.20 and I woke up with S bringing me tea. Wow, I thought. She’s up early given my alarm hasn’t even gone off.
Alas, no.
It was 9.20 and I had managed to hear my alarm, turn it off, go back to sleep and forget it ever happened. I dithered over my day plan in bed until about 10, until finally I just starting writing this on the Notes app on my phone. It’s about 11 now, S has taken the dog for a walk, and I can gladly tick this blog off my to-do list.
The only question is, what next? And when? And where…