On Distractions

I have always prided myself on being a non-procrastinator. I am, at core, the sort of person who does not shy from getting work done, be it for school or Half Mystic or writerly ventures; this - the head down immersion, the project in its entirety, the brain wrapped round one true notion, no static stops or starts - is the stuff that fuels my soul. I am rarely known to deviate. But ever since my OCD diagnosis, I feel some being clutching such a trait in its meaty fist, squeezing & squeezing & squeezing until the squeezing becomes the ceasing to exist.

It is a being of distraction, I'm realising. There are so very many distractions - marathoning Marvel films; eating peanut butter out of the jar; going for very long walks; rereading childhood books; taking too many selfies with my baby sister.

All of these are beautiful things. Things that I so adore.

Also: not the things that I should be doing.

There is so much struggle in my soul for that word. Should. Should. Should. My therapist has pointed out many times that I feel restless, jittery when I think that I'm being unproductive. That I rarely allow myself clock-ticks of peace to simply be.

Tell me: is there a way of reconciling the part of oneself which is restless, yearning, forward-backward-anxious, unable to ever slow down... & the one with photographer eyes and a whisper-sweet soul, the one that finds contentment only in the soft of the staying?

I have been contemplating such a thought lately.

A conclusion, of sorts -

I may find peace, perhaps, in the intertwinement. Understanding the doing in the not-doing.

Does that make the barest hint of sense? Perhaps not, but don't go - ponder this. I am unravelling into the thought that the way I have learned to cope with such horrible disorders (& how odd that I am only grasping it now, after three rounds of diagnoses) is to detach. Disconnect. And - of course, of course - to distract.

To lose, to shape-shift into the knowing of ephemeral wonders. To ignore what I should be doing instead.

And now, this curious wondrous revelation: that the most important work of all - the healing, the healing, always the healing - happens in the not-doing.

This could be my incessant idealism shining through. (But tell me truly - would you still be trailing along this small blog if not for love of that idealism? I think not.)

As I begin to laugh again - if only at characters in books. As I sing a theme song to a television show in the shower. As I send a text message to a friend, without reading it over thirteen times & deleting eight drafts. As I take iPhone photographs of the sunset on another one of my walks.

This is what they call: beginning to feel okay again.

I am not okay. I am so very far from it.

But I'm finding a kind of retreat in these distractions, a sanctuary that seems a rarity elsewhere. My mind forces me to slow, to forget about end product - that perhaps as I submit to impermanence, I weave drops of happy into the cracks left behind. Find the light where only shadows slunk before.

I am learning to forgive myself for the distractions.

If only in the lingering truth that they may be doing the most important work of all.

 

/

 

p.s. on the pursuit of loveliness & silver-tipped swallow & love letters for more

p.s.s. this is a song I recently discovered & have since been playing on repeat. "everything, everything will be just fine / everything, everything will be all right" — I hope so, I hope so, I hope so.