Me, My Life & Why Part 3

Part 3

My to-do list has 72 items.

I did one.

And by “did,” I mean I changed the font. To something calming.

That counts, right?

When I’m overwhelmed, my brain doesn’t say “prioritise.”

It says “clean the cutlery drawer and alphabetise your seasoning blends while every urgent task quietly rots behind you.”

I was supposed to respond to four emails, call the GP, chase a refund, and sort the insurance thing.

Instead, I deep-cleaned behind the toaster, reorganised my sock drawer, and spent a suspicious amount of time trying to remember if I’ve ever actually finished a tube of moisturiser in my life.

I did a lot.

Just… none of it was the stuff I was supposed to do.

It’s not laziness. It’s a form of productivity whack-a-mole. The more important the task, the faster my brain yeets itself toward literally anything else.

I tried. Honestly.

I sat down with every intention of “just starting one thing.”

Four hours later I had somehow watched three full documentaries about North Sea fishing, eaten two slightly stale crumpets, and created a colour-coded Google doc to track which shows I’ve rage-quit mid-season.

Still didn’t reply to Hannah.

Still don’t know what the deadline was.

I even wrote “JUST START” in all caps on a sticky note like I was summoning discipline from the void.

Then I spent twenty minutes choosing the right pen to make another to-do list.

It’s teal now. The list. Not the pen. The pen was purple.

Honestly, I might frame it. It’s the most beautiful documentation of my avoidance I’ve ever created.

At one point, I convinced myself that if I stood near my to-do list with enough purpose, I’d absorb the motivation through osmosis.

Spoiler: I did not.

Sometimes I try to trick myself into doing things by pretending I’m not doing them.

Like, I’ll open my email “just to check something,” as if that’s not the same portal to hell I’ve been avoiding all day.

Or I’ll sit on the floor near the laundry and tell myself I’m just passing through, like maybe proximity alone will absorb some of the responsibility.

Yesterday I stared at a bill on my desk for so long it started to feel like a romantic standoff.

I blinked first. Obviously.

I ended up on the bathroom floor eating dry cereal straight from the box, holding a mug of milk like it was wine, staring into the middle distance and trying to remember when exactly I lost control of my life.

Probably around the time I added “sort the junk drawer” to my list just to avoid “call the bank.”

My phone pinged.

“Just checking in!”

“No pressure, but any updates?”

Translation: do the thing

My soul: shush.

I paced the flat like something important might be hiding behind a chair.

Opened a drawer. Closed it. Thought about taking the bins out. Didn’t.

Sat back down and opened Instagram, saw a post about productivity hacks, and laughed so hard I startled myself.

Five minutes later I was watching a tortoise eat a strawberry, fully at peace.

And that’s when I realised: I’d been “taking a break” for four hours.

So I made a new list. A more accurate one.

What I Actually Did Today:

Replied to a comment from three weeks ago pretending it just came in

Spent ten minutes deciding if toast counts as dinner

Lost an hour googling “why do I get more done at 1am”

Folded laundry that I should’ve washed

Opened my banking app, immediately closed it

Made it to 5pm without crying or disappearing (gold star?)

Look, I didn’t get the important stuff done.

But the bin went out, the fridge no longer smells like betrayal, and I now own a labelled shoebox of spare batteries I didn’t know I had.

So yes, 72 things on the list.

One done.

Fifty avoided.

Twelve replaced by entirely different nonsense.

And somehow I still feel like I deserve a snack and a nap and possibly a certificate that says “At Least You Showed Up.”