The Avoidance of Deep Thought

I have been avoiding something. I rush around, from task to task, keeping my hands busy—at the very least—and hoping to engage my mind. It doesn’t matter if the task is mindless or takes acute concentration, though—as long as I am busy, that’s all that matters. I jump from one completed task to the next on my list—adding tasks at the end of each day that would take a superhero to complete. I keep lists at work, lists at home, lists of chores, and lists of activities. If I can keep busy, if I can check more accomplishments off, if I can plan out some more things to do, I won’t have to deal with the thing I dread most.

I have been avoiding time to stop and reflect. I have been avoiding thinking of myself. I have actively made the choice not to consider my options, my needs, and my self—and to place myself in the position of doing all things for everyone, being all things to anyone who wants something. And I don’t know why.

So I am participating in Just Write this week, to ask for your help. I think I know what’s going on inside me, but I’ve also learned that there are many times where you cannot see what’s actually going with the clarity of those from the outside looking in.

My husband thinks that this is “be a good girl” syndrome. My boss and a colleague of hers thinks this is my way of avoiding the next logical step in my evolution (going back to school to get my terminal degree—which is quite the commitment and worthy of anxiety). I think my sons think I’m up for some kind of martyrdom. Sometimes I wonder if I am just insecure enough to continue this almost pathological behavior of trying to be the best at all times. And then a friend will remind me that perhaps I keep busy to keep the fears, panic, anxiety, worry that plagues me away.

My husband suggests that I take some time off, that I stay at home for a few days, without him, without the boys, and give myself time to think. It’s a good idea, in theory, but I cannot fathom it. I can’t seem to stomach the idea of being in an empty house, by myself, with nothing on my radar and no plans regarding what I need to do. I can see myself roaming around the house, aimlessly, or worse yet—cleaning baseboards and the top of the refrigerator and ceiling fans. That would be defeating.

I am now trying desperately to not add those to my list.

This exercise, the concept of just writing, with no agenda, no mulling over an idea for weeks, no stewing about the perfect word choice—has allowed me to present (to you and to myself) a dilemma that I would not contemplate otherwise.  It’s freeing, in a way, and scary in many others. What should I do? What do you do? Am I the only one who feels this way? Is this just a trite, first world problem that I should discard, and move on? Or is this some indicator of a problem in our society—the guilt of enjoyment, the lack of reflection, the apathetic nature of searching our selves?

I leave the floor open to you.