greedy for time
when I want to do everything but actually do everything half-assed and wonder why I keep doing all of THIS like THIS *gesticulates wildly at my life*
Back when I was still on Tiktok, I watched a video of a harried-looking, middle-class, conventionally gorgeous white mother who was ranting about how she needed more hours in her days to clean, to drive her kids to different activities and sports, but also, to take care of her body by working out, making or prepping the meals she wanted to eat for the rest of the week. Then, she declared that she’d want another day (or three) to lie supine so that she could recover from doing everything she needed and wanted to do. I think she filmed this video while on a walk with one of her children in a stroller, dressed in fashionable athleisure, walking-running-screaming from the sheer frustration of keeping up with this modern life.
I remember thinking that if a woman who looks that put together doesn’t feel like she’s doing enough, how do other slackers like me have a chance? A slob who took her family to not one but TWO fast food drive-thrus on a Monday night?! (It was Taco Bell and Cane’s, because 1. I really wanted Taco Bell; 2. Kiddo still dislikes Tex-Mex; and 3. We didn’t have time to make dinner at home anymore after we tried to fit in an impromptu bike-riding practice for kid, but also, I wanted to stop by a thrift shop close by to see if they had any decent side tables. They did not. I did all of this with my family AFTER I went grocery shopping alone for Nigerian jollof rice and regular roast chicken quarters with a pipe dream to make the rice and chicken that night or the next.)
That Tiktok video as well as this post resonates with me at a time when Minnesota is slowly warming up again, and if it’s sunny and we’re not outside doing something, it feels like a waste of a perfectly nice day (I now define “a nice day” with a 50-degree afternoon with sun). I don’t remember who posted the video I mentioned above, but the author of the post cites being in her twenties as a reason why she feels unmoored or wanting to bite off more than she can chew from life. However, as a woman lurching towards the end of her thirties, I don’t think that feeling ever left me.
It doesn’t help that we Americans have built a culture around productivity and efficiency, so much so that taking time to rest is somehow radical instead of being seen as a human necessity. Me specifically, my identity has been tangled inextricably with being productive as long as I can remember: my Korean mom was always buzzing about the house or at work, running the register at their doughnut shop, getting groceries to wash and chop so that she could pickle, stew, or stir fry. She also did all of the dishes and put away leftovers, and only then she’d allow herself rest while snoring away with the biweekly K-drama blaring in the background of the living room. (You might be wondering about wtf my dad was doing—he did more of the physical labor at the doughnut shop like the rolling and frying—but he also spent most of his spare time at church as the music minister which helped to get their religious ya-yas out and helped to speed up our permanent resident status.)
So about six years ago when I had to come to terms with my dysthymia as a mom who’d recently stopped breastfeeding, a refrain kept bobbing up and down in my head. I eventually used the refrain as a part of my essay poem chapbook, darkly + completely:
a facsimile of my mom, who looks a lot like her but speaks English, appears inside of my head to say the following:
You need to be so busy that you wouldn’t know it that you’re sad
Dysthymia is a sort of subclinical, not-major depression, when very little brings you pleasure (anhedonia), and it’s what spoiled, educated immigrants are afflicted with when they’re not in survival mode like their parents were for most of their lives in America (my jokey definition).
I kept busy to keep the scaries away and evaded medical intervention for as long as I could because I thought I should be able to handle it: I was in talk therapy for over four years; I got outside and moved my body more regularly; and I developed excellent sleep hygiene and am now able to fall asleep within five minutes of putting on my CPAP mask while letting two squawking drag queens lull me to sleep. Despite my best efforts, I eventually had to give medication a try after my mom’s death—I couldn’t lift weights or sleep my way out of that foggy grieving period. The first major difference I noticed was that I was looking forward to small events whether it was a local food festival or a small get-together with Edie’s school friends and parents. The second one was that it became easier to build healthy habits, like less of a chore to keep the streak of workouts going. Another was that I stopped hounding and lusting after designer goods—turns out that my brain was trying to get its own dopamine hit by looking up new and used bags, comparing sizes and colors and prices, wondering when I’d be able to get my hands on a new !THING! that I’d grow tired of in less than one business week.
I’m now approaching my three-year anniversary with bupropion and despite my initial hesitation, I can’t really imagine a near future without this pharmaceutical help.
I vaguely mentioned on a previous post that I’m taking a break from therapy, and I don’t have a singular significant reason for the hiatus. I suppose it’s partly because I’ve kind of plateaued when it comes to self-improvement (god forbid that I stop over-intellectualizing and sucking out the fun out of everything!). And maybe I should give myself the permission to stop maximizing every single aspect of my life to the umpteenth degree and just be. And maybe over-scheduling1 with bupropion minus talk therapy is okay as long as I’m having fun and can revisit the issue if need be.
To end my post, I should mention what I ended up doing with my jollof rice ingredients and raw chicken parts: after putting kiddo down to sleep, Andrew and I talked about when I should make the dish.
“Not Tuesday night, because that’s when I have a haircut and we signed up to read to shelter dogs! Not Wednesday night, either, because that’s when I have to listen to seniors tryout to be the grad speaker, and kid has both private AND group violin lessons!”
That’s when Andrew asked, “Should I freeze that chicken?”
But that would’ve been loser talk—I couldn’t let myself be defeated by the prison that I architected myself with overzealous scheduling. Instead, I marched downstairs and started pureeing tomatoes, red bell peppers, and the orange, lethal habaneros together. I sautéed onions and cooked parboiled rice for 1.5 hours and cooled it enough to be refrigerated. I think I’ve eaten about 3 cups of cooked jollof rice between last night and this afternoon.
Now we’ll see if I actually roast the chicken quarters tonight as planned.
I know that the term “over-scheduling” is relevant on context and possibly laughable when talking about MY schedule in comparison to others, but whenever I look at my planner and I want to lie down and never leave my house again, that’s when I know I’ve over-scheduled/over-committed