How I know that I'm full of crap

I’ve been all three — sometimes at the same time. (National Library of Medicine)

In these pandemic times, there’s little difference between the days for work-at-home types like me.

Sure, once the things get rolling, there are more messages and pings on a weekday, and there is more traffic in my tiny city. But the predawn hours are tranquil; an early Sunday is indistinguishable from an early Monday. Both are dark and still.

So why would my Sunday self be unable to write while my Monday self is capable of it? Why does my Sunday self seek to crawl back into bed?

Everyone needs a break. But this is different. This is me sitting down at my laptop and just not feeling it.

And that is how I know that I’m full of crap. The feeling isn’t real. The only difference is the day. Whatever story I’m telling myself about what I’m capable of is not based in fact. I can choose to push through the discomfort of supposedly being unable to write and feeling too tired to do anything. I can write and do things. It’s a choice.

If I can do it on a Monday, I can do it on a Sunday. If I can do it at 7 AM, I can do it at 7 PM. Will I have fun? Maybe not. Will I achieve great results? Not necessarily. But I do not have to be stuck. I don’t have to be blocked. Those are metaphors that I could use to describe my mental state, and I have no diagnosable condition that would make any kind of mental state permanent. There’s nothing to prevent me from doing stuff. Sometimes, I just don’t wanna.

To be stuck suggests that I can’t move. I can always move. There’s always something that can shift. I may not feel like implementing the solution (going for a brisk walk around the block, eating healthy food, writing an outline first), but the solution is there for me if I choose to engage it.

The path forward isn’t always convenient. Sometimes, it’s downright grueling. But when I think of people who have lost function in various parts of their body or mind, or have itty bitty people or sick family members to take care of, or who are essential workers, I remember that they don’t have a choice about whether to engage with their challenges and problems. They must show up every day and face their lives. I can do the same.

If I don’t want to write (or meditate, or eat healthy food, or wake up on time, or go for a walk), I don’t have to. There’ s no one else who’s going to notice. But that’s why it’s important for me to realize that I’m doing these things for me. I’m doing them to have the life I want — because I think these things will help me to feel the way I want to feel and be who I want to be. The whiny attempt to renegotiate these terms is me arguing with myself. It’s me versus me. What’s the point of resisting?

Just like the child who makes a comically feeble attempt to get dressed, do homework, sweep the floor, or carry out some other task, I know that I’m totally full of it when I claim that I just can’t. And just like I would with the child, I can smile nicely and say to myself, “I’m sorry you’re having a hard time. You’re going to do this anyway.” Occasionally, there’s a temper tantrum. But the job gets done. I can be full of crap sometimes, but I also mean business.