I’m addicted to being busy.
Not the fun addicted. Not the, “Oh I love working out, I’m hooked.” kind. I’m more of the, “I know this is bad for me but I just can’t stop!” kind. The intervention kind.
As I’ve written before, every year around my birthday I become a big sack of misery. When I turned 25, it was like someone drop kicked me in the ovaries and turned on my biological clock. I became obsessed with the idea of getting married, having a baby and being a stay at home mom. I watched as people around me (read: people on Facebook) got engaged, bought houses, got married and had babies (not exactly in that order, but whatever. modern times y’all!). I spent most of my 25th year coasting, hoping that eventually good ol’ Prince Charming would get his act together , sweep me off my feet and tick off a few boxes on my fertility to do list. *
Stay with me, I do have a point here.
When 26 came around, I was in a better place romantically (re: my now boyfriend), but professionally I was in a slump. I was feeling like well, a failure. Putting way too much pressure on myself to have everything figured out by 30 (which I now know is garbage). To make up for this sinking, gnawing feeling of disappointment in myself, I started overloading my schedule. I took a second job, went back to school at night and was working 60 hours a week. I confused the idea with being busy with being en route to success, feeling like I was going somewhere.
I only managed to last 10 months with that jam packed schedule. I was so stressed out and so tired my performance was seriously lacking at work and school. I was doing so many things, but nothing well!
So, I dropped the second job – took less courses and figured I should be happy.
I couldn’t handle that I had all this”free” time on my hands so I started loading my schedule even MORE with dinners with friends, shopping trips, nights out at the movies, etc. As long as my phone was buzzing with invites, I felt happy.
Until…. last night.
For the first time in forever (Frozen reference, heyo where my nerds at?) it was a Monday night and I had zero plans. I felt so restless. I called my boyfriend, went to his house for dinner, went for a run and then finally it was 9 pm I was bored out of my face.
I decided to actually try and relax. I took a hot bath, grabbed a book and a hair mask and sat in complete silence.
Sweet merciful crisp, it was glorious.
I woke up this morning determined to clear more time in my schedule to spend at home. No plans after work, no more dinners with friends unless it’s on the weekend, no more strolling in the door at 10:30 at night.
I know I shouldn’t feel guilty about this, and I know my own twisted logic about busy being a good thing is garbage, but why is it so hard for me to accept that I need some ME time?
I’m very aware how crazy I sound and I should mention that I do invest in sweatpants. By invest I mean steal from ex-boyfriends. I’m just not that great with accepting the fact that I can’t do it all! Have it all! and have it all NOW! I’m mostly worry that if I start saying, “No” to people, my friendships will disappear, I’ll get to comfortable in my lifted homebody uniform and lose my…I guess it’s called ambition?
Has anyone else felt this way?
What do you do when you need some time to yourself. I need tips!