Overwork has been a struggle I’ve had all of my adult life. Like anybody with a genuine problem, even as I write this, I think it’s a kind of silly thing to say. How could someone possibly harm themselves or their life with too much work?! Work is the essential glue that holds a life together, and really, how could I say that I’m working too much when there’s still so much work to be done?
I’m constantly plagued by the worry that it’s not my overwork, but my chronic under achievement that leaves me fish brained, and turtle eyed. I can’t help but feel like the shit I do all day shouldn’t take as long as it takes, or shouldn’t be as tiring as it is. I don’t really know, maybe I am just a lazy bastard, but I keep having this feeling that I’m not. So I’m going to do something my friend told me, and count out the hours of my day, add them up and see how many there really are.
8 hrs – Work
8 hrs – Sleep
2 hrs – Commute
2 hrs – Dinner and clean up
2 hrs – Writing my blog
1 hr – Walking Pepper
1 hr – Hygiene
24 hrs – Total
No wonder I feel like I never stop working. There’s no time in my day to do anything else. But I look at this day, and what do I really do with it? I sleep, I eat, I do my job, and I take care of a household. Sometimes I can do two things at once, sometimes things don’t take as long as that, but sometimes they take longer. The nights I actually get 8 hours of sleep are few and far between, so what do I waste those extra hours on? Yeah, I fuck around on Reddit and Twitter too much sometimes, and I dawdle after work sometimes, talking to people, or I’ll sit around and watch the end of a show when I really should just turn it off. The problem with me is I legitimately believe that every single minute of every single day should be filled to the brim with purpose. But I look at my tired body, my dwindling mood and I wonder if I might be wrong.
I really enjoy writing longer, slightly more research intensive blogs like I did yesterday, or the personal and cultural examination that I wrote last Friday. But I’m starting to think that I should reserve my strength for those guys, and spend less effort and energy on the regular days like this. I need to let something slide, I need to be able to be shitty and not proof it three times, and not check my prose repeatedly. Sometimes I’ll spend half an hour to change three words out of a thousand.
The problem there is, my life isn’t interesting, so if I just wrote a throw-away post about what I did that day it would probably be one sentence: “See yesterday.” I don’t give myself time to have any sort of interesting things in my life because I am too busy working. By controlling my schedule with overwork and over-committment, I never have to worry about being interesting or having friends or a life or anything.
I do this a lot. When reality gets to be too much for me, I either pile on the tasks, or I complicate the tasks I already have. Average word count for my posts has risen as my stress levels have risen. And some of that is me taking care of myself, insulating myself with things I know I can do in the face of the chaos that is my family situation right now. But it’s been too long, it’s time to come out of hiding.
I get a lot of joy, and a huge sense of accomplishment from blogging every day, so I’m not going to stop that, but these things have to get shorter and looser, you guys. I’m not going to be putting out press ready material every single day. Sometimes I’m just going to talk about my day, even if it’s just about how much it was like yesterday. And honestly, I’m not sure that’s a bad thing. I read the blogs I read because I like the people that write them. And sometimes they write high-minded shit, but they’re not churning out perfectly worded and composed treatises on the state of reality every fucking day. Well, none of them are turning out anything every day, but that’s another issue all together.
Basically, I love doing this shit, but I gotta pace myself. Which is why I wrote 780 words on the subject. Because contradicting myself in word and deed forever hooray.