When I was younger, as most of us did, I took for granted my ability to get up and get doing things. I could procrastinate all day and all night, because I ‘knew’ that I was best at the last possible minute. It’s so stereotypical as to be hilarious; I’m sure I wasn’t the only one that subsisted on coffee and late nights rather than foresight, planning, and good sleep. And I kept reinforcing to myself that it was the ‘right’ pathway because I managed to squeak by on the tasks I was attempting to achieve. My body could take the hit (though to be fair, by my teen years I was already so weak and ill from probable endo that I couldn’t feel any worse), and I’d be just as ‘good’ as ever.
Once I managed to get a better fix on my mental health state, I realized that it was a lot wiser to operate on the premise that the sooner something was done, the sooner it was over. It gave me some minor drive to get things done… emphasis on minor. While I might have sobered up shortly after I moved here, I was still weak and ill and depressed; it’s only been this year that I’ve had the boon of diagnosis and medication. Still, the realization was as breakthrough of sorts, and is useful for those times when I can get my head out of the clouds.
Alas, my head is firmly fogged over right now, and it’s harder to see the point when my cognitive processes can’t see past the end of my nose. And that’s a place where depression can try to tag on and pull one under – when you cannot see the point of doing anything, why bother? Chores will need to be done over and over again, bathing, waking, moving… why bother? What’s the point of it all? It beats the snot out of me, but I’m doing my best to not let those thoughts break through and take over. My motivation is to not crash on that sort of burg, yo. It’s not much, but yet it’s everything at the same time.