in defense of my 'laziness'

and how I try to balance self-hatred with compassion

I snoozed four times today morning. So, we started the day sour: pre-disappointed.

My schedule is full, and my mind buzzing. My head, already hurting. I’ve been wanting to get ahead - to organize, to keep clean, to rearrange, and most importantly: to wake up when I told myself I would. But often I give into my body: she demands. She takes without asking. Arguing against this innate exhaustion, I’ve learned, is futile.

Reader, have you noticed that sleep is a touchy subject to me?

I am restless.

Being an introvert slowly crept up on me.

I thought I was much different than I am. Or, rather, I was fighting against what was natural to me because I wanted to be something else.

At a friend’s birthday, we sat in the heart of a beautiful, fairy-light decorated, rooftop restaurant. It was loud. And I found myself hiding away in the bathroom stall, glad the humming around me paused - even for a brief moment. Glad I could just sit there, no emotions to play on my face, no nice-things I had to say.

On busy days like today, I get increasingly agitated. I am exhausted before it even begins, just thinking about what’s ahead tires me. And throughout the day, I tend to hide in the bathroom often; seeking refuge where no one will interrupt me.

I have been working on validating my pain, to let it go. In my last letter to you I talked about disliking sleeping alone. Being unable to sleep well without my mother close-by has been a shameful secret to me, for a long time. My anxiety - in general - has been something I’ve been trying to paint over for my entire life. But as I grow older, I have learned - the hard way - that when they say the only way out is through, they don't mean sit and wait for the time to pass: they mean sit in it until it passes.

A quick meditation:

These usually start with deep breaths. My favorites, as of late, are the ones that go into your belly. We often breathe into our chest. It is more relieving, I find, to breathe with your whole body, to bring the air down to your stomach. Don't worry about holding and releasing. Breathe as you see fit. The rules of meditation often mystify it.

Simply breathe until you feel your body smooth out, even slightly.

Next, find your pain, wherever it is. For me, my anxiety lies on my back, and almost everything else in my chest. You can locate your pain by thinking of something that hurts you - whatever comes first to mind, is probably the first you should handle. Once you catch it, bring it to your center. Cradle it like a child.

Acknowledge it. Say, hello. Breathe in, again. It may be difficult this time. But focus on that feeling, let it overwhelm you: the embarrassment, the pain, the fear, the anxiety, the earth-shattering heartbreak.

Hold it in your embrace.

Allow your heart to fall and break and push and pull. Allow the wave to come over you, and be patient as it passes. As the water stills around you.

Only then will you be able to put it aside.

Do you think advice is futile when repetitive? Be honest.

We have been collecting and sharing the same lines over and over again - and many believe a thing repeated is simply redundant; rather than acknowledge a thing repeated is a thing strengthened.

An ex often told me, “I don't care when you say you love me, because you say it too often. Can’t you make it more special?” and I believe this line of thinking reduces all knowledge and care and, well, love, into nothing. Into less than it is. Because how do we learn if not through repetition? If not through consistency?

The point I’m trying to make is that I become disappointed in myself when I snooze, over and over again. Because one must trust themselves - and trust that when they decide something, they stick to it - they do it, consistently. If bedtime me says I’ll wake up at 9:00AM and take a walk, and morning me ignores her completely - then I exist in two opposites that can’t agree on shit. And I go forward in life, not trusting myself, intrinsically. Snoozing is me breaking the pattern, and thus - ruining the consistency I am trying to have morph into a routine.

But.

Both exist in harmony: failure and success: forgiveness and accountability: etc.: etc.: etc. They must. Finding the perfect balance to my life now feels like my biggest goal.

When I mess up, I try so hard to practice forgiveness and patience.

Things must break every once in a while, when necessary. The world deserves that kindness, to be imperfect, to be broken. Our bodies require that kindness. Even our minds require that kindness.

When I worked a full time job and had 21 hours of classes at uni, all in the same day, I gave myself one day of full reset. This day was very special to me. I felt very steady, mentally, during that period - despite how hard it should've been. Every Sunday, no matter what, I drew myself a bath. I listened to the same playlist. And I existed in a sort of flow-state for at least an hour. I turned my brain off, completely.

I crave that lately. I don't have a bathtub in my apartment (sad face emoji, indeed) and I can’t think of anything that calms me like a warm bath in a dark room.

But again. Things must break to come back together. That routine was perfect for me then, but I have a new schedule now: new off-days: new priorities: one less bathtub.

When I feel guilty over my behavior, over my snoozing, over my oversleeping, or whatever it is, I remind myself how difficult the past year has been for me. And I hold space for that. I don't want to carry that pain forever - so I carry it now. I acknowledge it now. And I make attempts to forgive myself. And I say: I will try again tomorrow. If not tomorrow, there is always the day after that.

I’ve been told I’m too positive. Does this letter feel that way? I’d like to explore that idea. The funny thing is, I am actually quite the pessimist, and I may be trying to fake-it-until-I-make-it. Or maybe it’s more like I’m trying to listen-to-my-therapist.

I write sad poems. Too many of them. This is also a thing I feel embarrassed of. I often mean to write love poems - they start that way; but the emotions of sadness come too easily. The words to describe it, too familiar. It’s easier for a poem to feel strong when it’s sad, I think. But I feel all I write about is unrequited love and death. I feel I’m just writing the same thing, over and over and over again.

I feel like an inherently sad person, but really - I don't want to be. Does anyone? And around people I love, I give them my best: I want to encourage, to lighten.

Maybe it comes off “fake”?

I don’t know.

When I come to write to you, I think of those words: “You’re too positive,” and I try to tone it all down.

Honestly - if I wrote without any positivity, without any hope, this would be a suicide note. Easily.

And these letters are really for me. From me to me. You, reader, are only an external factor, an excuse, a person whom I hope leaves this page with something, anything, new or interesting.

But this advice is really all for me. This is who I want to be. This is who I kind of sometimes believe I could be.

So, me, here’s some advice:

Creating a long, complicated routine and believing you’ll stick to it completely from day 1 is how we lose consistency and fall into despair. (Apply this to anything else, too. Learning. Dating. Driving. Loving.) Give yourself space to adapt, to adjust.

I only began waking up earlier because instead of deciding I’ll wake up, have breakfast, go for a walk, get dressed - I decided to simply wake up. And I allowed myself to sit on my phone until the exhaustion passed. Then, I decided to eat breakfast. And that meant anything in my mouth: a banana, a spoonful of peanut butter. Whatever. Later I could tweak it. Make dishes. But first I needed to build some consistency.

The more you celebrate success rather than failure, the more you’re able to move forward. It gives you drive, counting what you did right, instead of what you did wrong.

You don’t become as good as you can be overnight. One doesn’t change, like the flip of a switch.

Only recently I threw in the walk - and, really, it was out of necessity. If I didn't get fresh air, I would've lost my mind (it’s been a hard month). My neighborhood is a pretty, quiet one. I like watching the plants in the wind, the flowers slowly blooming. I try to only listen to music and nothing else. It is a sort of meditation, a practice on quieting my mind.

I’m just hoping the walk feels like less of a burden, as time goes by. Once I’m walking, it’s easy. But getting out of bed is always a big hurdle.

Like today - I relented to that difficulty. I did nothing from my preferred morning routine. Not one thing, not even the just waking up that I’ve been doing quite well for the past month.

In my defense: I dreamt of loss and death and every time the alarm rang, I felt the heaviness that came with going out into the world. Talking. Smiling. All felt like too much of a burden: And the apartment felt cold, suddenly, and I just wanted to cuddle with the cats, and stay asleep: I wanted to feel warm and safe.

I wanted things to be quiet and calm. I just wasn't ready…

Everytime I snoozed I berated myself in my head. Can't stay consistent for shit. Can’t be healthy. Always sleeping!

You know, the always sleeping thing was never something I thought of until others’ pointed it out. Amal’s always sleeping early. She’s always sleeping in. She’s so lazy. She’s never focused. She’s never listening. And I would have to explain: it’s my SSRI’s, it’s my blood pressure dropping, it’s my low iron. It didn't matter; people listen but they don't quite understand, sometimes.

Soon enough I began speaking to myself with that tone.

So lazy. Always sleeping. Can’t do anything!

But I’ve sat with my journal a lot these past two weeks, and when I list the things I’ve been through, I don't find it surprising that my body is having difficulty moving forward. She’s been in flight-or-fight mode for much too long; and that simple acknowledgement has helped me understand so much of my behaviors. My inconsistency. My exhaustion. My emotional outbursts. All of it.

I’ve been thinking of Zuko’s metamorphosis. It has always hit a chord with me, that scene. The importance it places on rest after traumatic experiences. Somedays, I feel like I’m resting to make up for the past 24 years of life. I tend to go into solitude very often, and every time, I tell myself: This is my metamorphosis. I need to break apart, so I can come back together.

Though I am not grappling evil and good like Zuko, I am certainly grappling between hating myself and being compassionate with myself. Patience is the most difficult skill I have yet to acquire. Perhaps my constant war with myself is what leaves me in perpetual exhaustion. How to end that war? I am still investigating.

Reader, it’s been a hard year. And you know what I forgot to give myself, through it all?

Grace.

I forgot to give myself grace.

“You blossom under kindness, don't you? Like a rose.”

Sylvian Reynard

So - I didn't wake up early. I did not go for a walk. Today, I failed, but in that failure, I also did so much right. I listened to my bodies’ need for rest. I took the morning as slow as I could. I gave myself breaks, I asked to be driven instead of driving, I took my comfort into consideration.

And funny enough, when you are surrounded by people who love you, they also take your comfort into consideration.

The people who love you want you to be comfortable.

So learn to love you, and give yourself comfort.

I know - repetitive. You’ve heard this advice before, haven’t you?

But we are so small in a world so vast. Your cells are constantly multiplying, over and over - giving you life. Look up: the stars are endless; new ones always bursting into fiery, beautiful existence. What is natural to us, to this universe, if not multiplication? If not repetition?

So don't you think something that exists in multitudes is something right?

Think about it.

Until next time, be sweet to yourself. Like you would be sweet to your lover, or your friend, or your pet.