(Written in March 1986)
There’s so much work to be done around the house and I just don’t seem to have the energy. Or the discipline. Or the faith that it ultimately means anything to keep this house neat and clean. Impossible and discouraging to try to do because so much is unfinished and there’s no place for storage. I want to sort out the filing cabinets, and the box of old financial records. I want to repot the plant, and the ones that are rooting in jars of water. I have to do the work for my class, much easier this time than last, and fewer students so less homework. I want to get together the talk on legends that I’m going to do with my slide show for NEARA. They’ve got me on as the evening speaker and I’m actually excited by the prospect of a new incarnation for the slide show. Yet when I think about doing the work I feel the familiar nausea. I don’t know what to do about it. I feel guilty and lazy and think that it just takes the application of will power. Sometimes that seems to work, gets me over the hump of getting started, other times the stress of forcing myself, or the resistance to it make me worse than ever, no concentration. Writing this out I feel disgusted with myself. There’s no excuse for not at least trying, doing a little bit perhaps, then putting it aside for awhile and doing a little bit again. I’m so self-indulgent and undisciplined, just what angers me in my father.
Here I am blaming myself for “self-indulgence and lack of discipline” — I had NO IDEA what I was up against.