...and not in a cutesy 2000s frazzled English woman way. I wish.
I think my unalterable cyclical rejection of common sense and endorsement of personal low-stakes chaos is a curse worse than Sisyphus having to push that boulder up the mountain. For real.
When I was younger, I would argue with my mum and shout at her, even though I knew I didn’t want to be shouting (I actually wanted a hug). I knew this because my chest would tighten and my throat would wane into what felt-like the airflow capacity of a pea. I would hold tears back and only let myself release them when I got behind the iron gate of my door, where I would slide down and be angry at myself for the very names I had just called her and the words I shouted I didn’t mean. But in that peaking climax of argument and tension I could never back out, you have to finish the fight! Say that thing you’re going to regret! How stupid you’ll look if you suddenly stop. That would be embarrassing.
Another more current example could be that I know being more organised and punctual would be genuinely beneficial to myself and relieve me of a lot of stress, but I refuse to put actionable things in place. When the thought of you should leave ten minutes earlier because it will make the journey much less stressful for yourself passes through my head, I register it and then cram it to the back of my head like an intrusive, creeping thought only meant for the dark solitude of the very back corners of my brain.
I am always running late. I leave after the time google maps tells me to, every time, even though I had been checking it constantly as I got ready, and was aware when I needed to leave- and now because I had already left it to the tightest margin of options, missing that transport route means I will be irrevocably late, not the five-to-ten minute late I had already anticipated for, but late-late. I am late to important appointments, occasions with friends, events I have planned, job interviews that mean so so much to me. The one thing I can control is what I do to encourage being on time, but it seems my brain rejects any possibility of helping itself as though being punctual and having self-discipline is akin to the betrayal of the very foundations of my body and soul. What is that about? People constantly ask me how can I always be so late, and why don’t I just leave earlier? - and I can’t answer. I’m constantly rushing, overwhelmed by I’m about to miss the flight, or the one bus that I've bought an extremely expensive last-minute ticket for because I forgot to buy it in-advance even though I was reminded a million times is non-exchangeable and I’m completely buggered if I miss it (which I usually do). I think to myself, if I had just listened to myself I could have avoided all of this and not now be in a black hole of self-loathing and self-pitying my uselessness.
Just like arguing with my mum when I was younger, If I just stopped to think and admitted I did not want to be saying those things or even mean them and just take a step back I could have saved so many lonely nights. If I could just listen to myself and what I actually wanted to do and what is best for me, I could save so much stress and anxiety in day-to-day life and not have fumbled that interview or annoyed my friends time over time.
To further hammer this picture into the wall I will give you the example of 'my' phone. I broke my phone (shock, right?). So, currently I am loaned my friend’s brother's smartphone. Somehow, the screen stopped working. Now, I explained to my friend that the screen had suddenly stopped working, but I knew the chances of this being believed and that I hadn’t done something extremely stupid or clumsy were slim - I mean, my track record was not in my favour, but honestly this time it had just randomly stopped working! I know I need to get the phone fixed but I keep putting this off, because, why? I don’t know and genuinely couldn’t tell you why my gravitational field rejects doing anything helpful or productive for myself.
The screen only turns on if I jump-start it with a charging cable, or if I shake it with the correct vigour so that the automatic screen wake-up function reveals the non-damned pixels. The shaking method was not working for scenarios where I had to use apple-pay (a function I rely on to pay for everything, because I have lost my card, again). So, finally, I caved in. No, not to getting it repaired, but to buying a portable charger so that I could jump-start the phone wherever and whenever I needed. Only, I forget to charge the portable charger and I also forget to bring it anywhere. When I shake my phone trying to get the screen to appear whilst trying to tap on to the tube for the underground, I know I’m the least popular commuter of that morning rush.
Maybe the most recent and vivid example could be from today, that will firmly frame and secure the painting I have begun to paint for you.
I went to a coffee shop with my friend. It was fairly busy: there was a queue, only a couple of the small, less-favourable tables situated in awkward nooks of the cafe were free. The barista made our drinks and placed them on a black circular tray for us to carry to our table. I had my phone balanced in my left hand and I observed that this may be awkward and I may not be able to grip the tray properly. I said to myself: you’re going to drop that if you don't put your phone in your bag first.
Guess what?
This thought, like the other sensible ones, was fleeting. Before I could properly consider the sense of it, I had banished it to that dark corner of my brain where I seem to dismiss these helpful cognitive prompts. I picked up the tray and immediately dropped it. In slow-motion to taunt myself of the moment, the two large cups fell forwards towards me and out came the freshly scalding coffee like the crest of two waves conjoining before their final crash to the sea. Tiramisu flavoured latte flooded the protein bars and up-sell biscuit range that sat in the plastic shelving unit in front of the counter. The deluxe savoiardi finger biscuit that made up the extra one-pound-fifty of the drink laid beached on the grubby floor tiles beneath my soiled boots.
Oh dear.
I put my hands up to my head and cupped my eyes with my palms, sticky from an over-syruped drink that I hadn’t even paid for, but that my friend had treated me to. I stood there and scolded myself silently- you knew that was going to happen, why didn’t you just take your time? Come on, again? Another thing? Really?
Immediately the lady behind me in the queue came to comfort me with a flurry of supportive affirmations such as it happens to the best of us! and at least the cups didn’t smash, I bet those drinks didn’t taste half as good as your next ones will!
Her support for a stranger was overwhelmingly undeserved by such an idiot. I wanted to tell her:
Listen lady. This happens to me all the time because I’m stupid and I constantly make mistakes and fumble simple things because I can’t seem to think properly! You shouldn’t be on my side, you need to be against me, telling me how silly and foolish I behave!
Time after time I cannot keep falsely comforting myself with phrases like ‘these things happen’ that are meant for people who make infrequent mistakes that can't be helped. Yes, these things do happen, but I am too acquainted with these situations to deflect them with such dismissal and take no responsibility. How can I use the phrase ‘these things happen’ to support myself when it feels satirical to use.
These things happen because I allow them to. That must be how it works. But I don’t want them to happen! I don’t want to constantly make bad impressions at interviews, or make my friends feel disrespected for my lack of appreciation of their time and plans, or spend a ridiculous amount of money on replacing train tickets I’ve missed, or even booked at the wrong time because I didn’t double-check the date, or even sometimes place. I’ve ended up at the wrong airport, I’ve flown to another country forgetting my phone, I’ve left the keys to my car in the key slot on the OUTSIDE of the car door more than once. These are meant to be one-offs and I do them more often than not.
Someone asked me if I do these things on purpose. Oh my. I felt like raising my hand to my chest, scoffing and dismissing them with a frantic wave of my wrist like a Victorian woman of the house being insulted on her drapery choices: the very core of my being. On purpose? Why on earth would I be doing these things on purpose? I don’t want them to happen! I feel struck down by the gods of functionality, limping helplessly as I muddle around grasping for routine and sensibility in my silly little life.
So, the conclusion of this is that I am not sure why I can’t follow the sensible and functional side of my brain, that clearly wants to have a say before every time I eff-up. I can’t explain it, and I can’t put it into words, but it just feels like there is a colossal glass wall inside of my head that these logical thoughts sit behind, muted, and I can only hear them properly after having made the wrong decisions and I tune into their shame and sighs of disapproval.
I would rather be pushing that boulder up the mountain, and if I’m being brutally honest, I’m not sure Sisyphus could hack the inner turmoil of my cognitive dissonance. x
