Over the past few years, I have found it difficult to define the difference between growth, deviation, and procrastination. It wasn’t too long ago that I acknowledged a severe wedge of procrastination that had driven two halves of my presence to opposing ends of the spectrum upon which I exist. On one side, I remained a dreamy-eyed believer in things that have yet to materialize. On the other side, negligent of dreamy-eyed girl, I transgressed into an objective-driven, goal-oriented, blasted tyrant. Within months, that neglect inched into oblivion. Within a year, I was blind.
My initial observation of this divide relied on growth as the source of my new, structured self. I had grown, of course, from being a silly-hearted youth to a purpose-driven adult steered by targeted expectations. In folly, I tossed recommendations to those still caught up in being young and carefree that one should remain as such for as long as possible, as this grown-up world grabs us by the balls in a throw down. Wise advise.
Later embarrassed of being a jackass through the awakening that I am clearly not wise, nor purpose-driven by nature, I assumed that this growth theory was more so a mere deviation of the life from which I had emerged. In essence, I convinced myself, I was born an artist of sorts and donned bright-eyed perspectives for most of my life, but then, for reasons unknown, I deviated or changed course to compensate for an altered lifestyle or the need for assets. I examined my motives and unearthed a desire for financial security and a love of the money game. If I worked hard, I got paid. Through this second dose of self-analysis, I barely recalled the days of old when all aspects of the world surrounding were comprised of endless dialogues in my mind and stories soon to follow. Everyone was a character. Everything was a set.
With my stage far behind me, and my mind slowly decreasing along the horizon, I took a third shot at the circumstances of my life as the scenarios, most recently, have weighted me in a malignant and suffocating stillness.
On the heels of this self-definery, the death of a dear friend struck a blow that knocked on the threshold of places I have long since forgotten and people I promised never to forget. Me, being one on the list; a face in a sea of blurred images.
In the absolute form of existence, we can say these things. We place blame on memory for gray recollection. We place blame on lifestyle for neglect.
In my abstract form of existence, the one that enabled a dear friend to recently remember me as starry-eyed on the streets of New York City with the world extended before me, I have officially deemed my life and that wedge of which I spoke earlier, a form of procrastination.
I have not grown away from myself. The theory abolishes the sense of self in its entirety. Growth is identified by expanding our spirits in alignment with adaptation to surrounding environments, events, and emotions cultivated by the presence or absence of human contact. To grow away from who I was is to say that I have not grown at all. It is to say that I have left myself resting stagnant and without care. Above all reason, to say that I have grown in a direction opposite of who I once was, or from who I thought I’d be, is a poor excuse prompted by a fear heeding warning that life may not occur within the calculated format we often record in projection. It is easier to pretend I love money or have altered my path than to say that this did not turn out the way I had planned.
I am not purpose driven. I do not love money, and therefore cannot say that money or any form of monotary value has driven me to fulfill desire. I cannot be deviated by cash nor by the success with which socialites and corporate executives associate it. My theory of deviation dissolved quickly when I, without a resigning thought in my mind, easily relived myself of work for 10 days with reason being that I simply did not want to talk to strangers for a week. I am clearly not a professional success.
With two theories in the toilet and a withered sense of direction, clarity nearly deafened me upon awaking one morning with the realization that I am procrastinating.
Procrastination, like cancer, comes in varying degrees of size, shape, and effect. Sunday Morning ran a segment on the psychological components of procrastination the week I neglected to work. Ironic in nature, the feature reported that procrastination can be considered a tool of productiveness. While avoiding the demands of deadlines and expectations on one or more projects or areas in need of attention, an individual can delve into adjacent projects and become productive at accelerated paces. Simply put, I can neglect my inner need for self-expression and compassionate desire to touch lives in a positive way while moving mountains across arenas in which I never imagined to exist. I’m buying time. I’m doing great things in place of the great things I promised to myself as a starry-eyed youth.
The wedge hasn’t budged since my epiphanotic morning. I’m still moving the wrong mountains. I’m good at it and my ego is a well-fed monster. Upon returning from my 10-day leave, instead of focusing on tasks that have lain dormant in great need of attention, I returned to churning dollar amounts in my head and picked up the phone to call a stranger. It’s that easy to forget that I meant to be different. It’s that easy to forget to be true to myself.
As I run in the circles with which I am surrounded, encompassed by good things and good people, I confront myself in secretive whispers, “What would they think if they knew who you are.”
I call it my Spider Man theory.
