banish those tentative drafts

the process of getting over yourself and getting out of your way

Photo by Csabi Elter on Unsplash

I feel compelled to begin this post with an apology because it’s been so long since I posted something on here. I didn’t know if it was worth it given my length of absence. So much has happened since I last published a post on here. I’ve made a couple of attempts to put pen to paper, but I could never finish a draft to completion. This has become a frustrating habit of mine which I’m hoping to banish this year. I suspect hours spent online have fried my attention span. I know procrastination can bedevil those of who can’t let go of perfectionism, who refuse to accept that it’s normal to fall short of the exacting standards they’ve set themselves. The writing process has never been easy, but I suspect I’ve made it harder for myself with all the literal and figurative dancing around I do. So instead of offering an apology that feels like more of admission of defeat than a genuine remorse, I’ll catalogue the number of ways I continue to get in my own way. In doing so, I hope I’ll extinguish some of the humiliation and embarrassment in favour of something more productive and purposeful.

I find that I’ll usually start a draft with promise, only to get stuck, panic, and drift off into the multiple tabs I’ve started. This usually occurred after I’d knocked off work/the other contract jobs I had. But more times than not, I’d intersperse the hours of my decent-paying jobs with all this writerly anguish. On a good day, I’d have returned to the page some minutes later, slightly embarrassed but happy to have made it back home. On a bad day, I wouldn’t even have remembered I had something to write. There used to be a time where I could rein my procrastination in more swiftly. However, I’ve accepted that these magical powers are unlikely to return any time soon. I’ve tried different apps and timers to keep myself accountable. But somehow the bad habits creep in, eventually becoming little nightmares that I can’t wake up from. Having been sucked into the adult-women-with-ADHD rabbit hole, I’ve also debated seeking professional help for my ailment which isn’t just limited to writing. I’ve become more forgetful as the years go by, losing track of time even when I’ve made the effort to do things hours in advance.

I’ve haven’t had the best experiences with medical professionals because I’ve never felt like they took me seriously. However, I do have a tendency to believe that most of the world thinks lowly of me. I also have to admit, the one diagnosis a psychiatrist gave me years ago proved to be true and I’ve since sought out help for it. Sometimes I wonder whether I’m not so much looking for help as I am for someone to confirm that I’m especially sick or troubled. I want someone to acknowledge the chaos that brews in my head in language that is professionalised and scientific, providing the kind of credibility and legitimacy I seem to want in droves.

But it isn’t just the procrastination, neglected drafts and brain fog that I’d like to banish this year. Last year, my shopping habits became enormously compulsive, crossing into territory that feels familiarly uncomfortable. About two and a half years ago, I gave up one of my prized vices after realising the amount of havoc that it was causing in my life. It was the best decision that I’ve ever made. While my life doesn’t look remarkably different, I can handle it in ways that I thought I could. I have cultivated a sense of awe in human experiences that once struck me as mundane. I feel excited to live life and at present, feel grateful for what I have and accepting of who I am.

Yet these two and a half years of recovery have shown me that combatting one dependency can often feel like a game of whac-a-mole: you think you’re making headway with one thing, only to have something else emerge as an obstacle somewhere down the road. It is painfully humbling. There is also the fact that shopping addictions have an understandable whiff of vanity to them. While I’ve tried to console myself with the fact that I only buy secondhand clothing, I know I don’t need almost all of it. Even when I’m not shopping, I’m scouring for something new, desperate for the thrill of staring at something beautiful, something that holds the promise of relieving me from whatever it is I’m running away from.

There is a lot of shame I don’t want to confront. There is a lot of embarrassment in having something you love be corrupted by the obsessive behaviour that seems to lie dormant in your body. I’ve also seen how derisively people write about compulsive shopping. Frankly, I don’t think they’re all that wrong for it. Our planet can’t survive more generations of compulsive shoppers. People should develop a sense of who they are, what they’re interested in and what they stand for outside of a cycle of purchasing.

Buying stuff relentlessly, regardless of need or want, made me feel gross. Only thing worse was the silly rules I followed to convince myself things were under control. Don’t spend over R350 (before delivery). Buy a utility item like a coat or pair of trousers. Make sure the quality is good. Make sure it’s not all polyester. Has to be vintage. Has to be unique. Etc. etc. etc. The frequency of this habit was unsettling. It was stupid how enlivening it felt, how quickly it hollowed a bad mood, only for it to return once the thrill of opening the parcel and trying on the clothing waned. But I’d be lying to you if I said I’ve considered making a formal pledge to stop. I know what it’ll require of me. I know it’ll mean letting go of something that brings me immediate gratification. Quite cowardly, I’m hoping that it will sort itself down the line, or that I’ll grow out of it like teenage phase. This will most likely not be the case. I’ll probably need to address it with the honesty of someone who is willing to acknowledge they have a problem. Experiences has shown this to be true.

Life took me in all sorts of directions last year. This year, I want to devote more time to finding ways to interact with vintage clothing and the vintage community without always feeling the need to reach for my wallet. This isn’t to say that I won’t. Honestly, I can’t imagine the day when I lose the compulsion to latch onto the rugged lapels of every double-breasted 1970s leather jacket that I search online for. But I hope to get to a place where I feel the only way to fully appreciate the beauty of an item is to own it. I want to be able to notice the rugged charm of a late 1960s suede coat, or the professional flirtatiousness of a 1970s pussy bow blouse without feeling the urge to make it mine. I want to be able to go to markets feeling like it would be time well spent even if I didn’t buy a thing. If I think back to what got me interested in vintage, it was not the pursuit of ownership or the thrill of a purchase, but the rich and textured history behind the items and the lives they carried.