I’ve Done Nothing for Weeks Now

I’ve done nothing for weeks now.

Four to be exact. A month of nothing. Nada. F all. A fat lot of zilch. I mean, other than move house. And start a new job. And meet a boy.

But of the things I do all the time — I’ve done none of it. I’ve barely grazed these Medium posts. I’ve not fingered the page of a single book. My journal is barren, my fridge following suit and yet my mind is simmering with a surplus of stress.

I’ve done nothing for weeks, nothing routine. But I’ve done plenty of new things.

My dad has fallen out with me. I kissed a guy. I forgot to send my invoice in. There’s a pretty spotless staircase in my building thanks to me and my housemate, his mom and our neighbours having spent hours cleaning away the dust coating them — you know, after my housemate fell through the ceiling. I bought a light-bulb. Paid a gas bill. Cried alone in my room, alone in my house, on a day I’d spent all alone.

And the bloody rest.

So yeah, I’ve done good new things and bad new things, but absolutely none of my normal, daily things. Because my daily life is no longer normal. I have new priorities. New people. Less time and more to do.

The house move

Has meant that my structures have been restructured. My belongings now belonging elsewhere. I’ve had to pack, unpack, reorganise and rearrange and because of that, my routines have had to follow suit.

The new job

Has meant that my other priorities have had to be bumped down the food chain a little. Medium is no longer the first platform I write for. The book I’m writing is now the book I’m avoiding. I’ve had to bench side projects because suddenly I’m on the front-line of a championship game that I’m in charge of. The pressure’s on — so my old routines are off.

The boy

I’ll be honest with you, the main reason I’m getting nothing done is because I can think of nothing else but him. He’s occupying the forefront of my brain and the remnant space up there is busy regretting the fact that I told him he reminds me of Robert Pattinson (no but seriously, he does. Now you see my problem).

And there have been….issues. But there have also been kisses and I think that balances out the universe pretty aptly. And kisses, by default, leave your brain fried, frazzled, friggin’ glowing. So yeah. My head is on fire — and nobody can work productively inside an inferno.

So. Why am I telling you all this?

Because man, I’ve been bloody hard on myself these past few weeks. I’ve berated, degraded, dug and jabbed at myself for not doing What I Usually Do™.

• I haven’t read from the Morgan Harper Nichols poetry book in the morning that I used to keep bedside, because my bedside has migrated a couple miles to the left and I’ve been busy waiting for the boiler man to arrive.

• I haven’t written on Medium about my new job because I’ve been busy doing it. Supposedly you have to actively do the work if you want to get paid for having done the work. What a concept.

• I haven’t stewed alone with my thoughts because I haven’t been alone. And even my thoughts are being invaded by this boy. Is this fella Napoleon?

I haven’t done anything for weeks now and I’ve been a proper knob to myself about it. But — uh, excuse me — wait, hold on a second. Why? Why am I treating myself like crap? Has anything that has ever been treated like crap benefited from such treatment?

Spoiler alert: no. Never.

Matt Haig wrote in The Comfort Book within a single-paged chapter titled “The Bearable Rightness of Being”:

“Being > doing.”

And this month I might not have done much, but I’ve been a whole lot. I’ve been rested. I’ve been full. I’ve been happy. I’ve been on edge. I’ve been worried. I’ve been sad and lonely and then glad and enclosed in a bear hug. I’ve been alive.

Don’t we do things under the premise of being something anyway? Don’t we do hard things to be stronger people? Don’t we do pleasant things to be full of joy? Don’t we do this and that to become him and her and whoever we’re destined to be?

Right?

I’ve told myself I’ve given myself “a holiday.”

But actually, I don’t need to give it a definitive label in order for it to be allowed. It doesn’t need to be a predetermined period of time in which I allow myself to have a little rest, a little time to myself, a little chance to do something new. We don’t need permission to simply exist. We don’t need to schedule in time for our soul. We’re a species that lives for the weekend only to spend it stressing about the week that follows — but we don’t need to be.

So no (no, no) I’m not going to feel guilty for this past month of my life. I’m not going to berate myself hate myself for switching up my routine, pausing parts and adjusting others to accommodate newer elements of my life. Instead, I’m going to be proud. Proud that I granted myself the time to grow. Proud that I let myself be more than just my productivity and to-do list. Proud that I exist, here and now and beneath the moonlight, breathing and smiling and buying Neapolitan ice-cream.

This month has been about ticking off my to-be list.

Because people are dying. Five people were shot in the seaside town of Plymouth the other week. Wars are spreading like disease and diseases are killing like warfare. Bad things are happening here and there and across every inch of the planet at all times and I will not let my bad thoughts about myself be one of those things.

Especially since goodness is abundant too. And it’s louder. We just need to let ourselves hear it, sing along to it, and forget the rest for a little while.

However long that “while” might be.

Because I’ve done nothing for weeks now.

But I’ve been everything — for my whole lifetime. Regardless of how many articles I write, books I read, gym sessions I talk myself out of, I have still been. Still existed. Still lived.

I’ve moved house — and been stressed.

I’ve started a new job — and been inspired.

I’ve started seeing a boy — and been giddy.

All things I’ve always been no matter what stage of my life I’m in. So I might not have “done much” but I’ve been enough. Always have, always will be. Today, tomorrow, next July 23rd. It doesn’t matter what I do along this timeline, but it matters that I have been. I have happened. I still am.

Just like you.

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Oh hey, whilst you’re here: why not put the “em” into your “emails” and lob your name onto my mailing list for weekly em-bellishments on my rose-tinted, crumb-coated lens of life. It’s the equivalent of the reduced section in the supermarket (low value Weird Crap™ that you didn’t know you needed).