I keep thinking I have enough time.

 I always wonder, and by wonder, I mean; I start to wonder about why I am the way I am only to end up getting lost in my tracks imaging different possible scenarios of the outcomes of every possible decision I make. It’s a loop sometimes I can snap out of it if my attention can be directed to something else.

I used to write when I was a teenager. Used to go to church back then, where I use to be able to stand in front of everyone and recite what I have written. It was nice. When I was younger, I could thrive on the adrenaline kick that center stage brought me. Somewhere along the way, I became more self-aware. The fear of failing got in the way. You see I was already socially awkward and that didn’t help me make any friends. It was difficult for me to connect with my peers. I wasn’t the girl that had a lot of friends. I would rather be myself than invest energy in engaging people who might end up not liking me anyway.

So I did the next best thing I could, keep to myself. Well, that did not last for long, I have my impulsiveness to talk to people to thank for that. It looked like the more you talk to people the more they will get to know you and you them. Turns out it is not as bad as it seems.

Going back to my initial thought. I used to write. I used to write a lot. My aunt bought me my first diary. I loved that thing so much. It was ballet-themed, there was a ballerina on the front cover with almost blond hair pastel pink tutu, and matching point shoes. The center had a heart shape cut out with what looked like a glass frame made of plastic. In the frame, you could see another pair of pointe shoes. That was the moment I knew in my heart I was going to be a ballerina when I grow up. I did my best to write every day. The first few days were great. Then the frequency dropped, I wrote every other day. Eventually, I might write in it if and when I stumble upon it. I wrote when I was stuck in my feels. After a few years, Winx club was trending, and I was addicted to that show I loved every aspect of it. Another aunt of mine send me the whole back-to-school set. It consisted of a few pencils, an eraser, and the main character, the diary. And so, the habit began. I would write for days. As the days goes by, I would put out the writing. Not now, not now to I will get back to it. I should write like I used to. I will pick it up again after a few months and really try to be consistent. So, I wrote when something bad happens. When there was no one to talk to. I would write.

When I write I could get out of my mind this tangled web of shit load and organize it in a pattern using letters making words and giving them order and meaning. Writing helped me tone down the noise. The word would flow on the pages of that Winx club diary. The writing was my way of connecting my inside self and my outside self.

Just putting what is on my mind on paper always seems to have a soothing property. That is why I must write everything down, I mean everything otherwise I might put it out and eventually forget it. I make a checklist for everything. Some of them are unrealistic A F, which doesn’t keep me from making them anyway.

Making list gives a sense of order in my brain. If I have a list, I can see the things I want or need to do at a glance. That is until I get so carried away, I forget to glance at the list. You see, this can be the result of one of two things. The first, I can’t get myself away from that what caught my attention or the latter were I started to overthink which led me to procrastinate, which then let me get overwhelmed which then made me so anxious I shut down completely, consequently lost a day or days at the time achieving nothing. So after I wake up from that loop I will make another list.

At this exact moment, both are happening. I have a list of shit I should get done. But I wrote my first blog a couple of hours ago. I am pumped and hyper-fixating again. This time for a good cause.

I got to try a lot of different activities in my life. No matter how much I liked them after a while a had to stop either for money issues or engaging enough. The moment I feel stuck I will drop it. I was already stuck in my head I don’t need to be stuck outside it two. Where is the fun in that?

I am good at starting shit and bad at sticking to them. With the exemption of papers. I wish I could be more responsible with my time management and just start the papers on time. It takes so much effort. I made it so I can start working on early. Start with researching, look up the recent papers. Opening a Facebook, spent more than an hour watching unrelated videos. When I am ready again ow the cuticle on my right finger is acting up, I need to fix it. Ow, there is more that needs fixing. Well, you can’t…. Oh, shoot I need to pee. Sits down again and starts to get sleep. Ah well guess we will have to do this later; no tomorrow is better cuz later I need to go get food.

So, nothing ever gets done. After I bring home the groceries, I might impulsively rearrange the whole kitchen. After being satisfied with my work I will move to find something else to be obsessed about. For example, it's 5 am in the morning and I forgot to sleep.

This is why I can never get my paper done in time. I am always thinking I have enough time. Somewhere along the way, I have associated writing papers with negative emotions and feelings. I will put it out till the last possible minute in the hope of, I can definitely make this research paper in 8 hours. Sometimes I can, which has left me to believe that I can do it every time. Every other time I don’t, and I will be so surprised about it. Complete denial am I right.

For a long time, I felt alone and lost. Disconnected from the world and its people. Although I long for my brain to slow and quiet down, my biggest fear is going silent. What would happen to me when the lights go out.

Anyways, I am writing again. Maybe you might not understand me, or you just might. I write to give the mess in my brain some sense of structure. It makes more sense to write what I’m thinking so I can read it back. I am not a writer nor a native English speaker. I’m a polyglot and for some reason the language of my feelings is English.