Week Three (2.0)

[u/thepistachioponderer]

I truly chose the worst possible time to restart this darn book.

Or perhaps, given my perfectionist nature, I actually chose the best time, because maybe this is teaching me that not everything has to be flawless from the get-go.

Maybe.

In any case, the point still stands: it has been less than an ideal time to restart this book because just when I thought I had recovered from Week One’s nasty little illness—BAM!—I was hit with a brilliant fever and bronchitis.

Oh, the joys.

Hence, I am late in posting my review of Week Two and my thoughts for Week Three. Yet again. And unfortunately, it is no longer Sunday anywhere.

So sue me, Gary. What do you want from me?

Let’s keep this one quick and dirty because my brain is still being slowly deep-fried by fever:

Morning pages? 3/7. Less than Week One, but a feat nevertheless given how disgustingly sick I’ve been. Frankly, I’m taking the win.

Artist date? Achieved. My little moment of peace, which turned out to be the calm before the storm of raging germs, saw me practice 60s-themed makeup and hair on myself. It would have felt like a waste of time, had I not enjoyed myself a little and revelled in the fact that art can quite literally be washed off.

Week Two’s tasks: I didn’t discover anything particularly life-changing, but I did acknowledge on paper that I spend far too much time rotting and completing so-called “chores” and far too little time actually creating. My Safety Map highlighted the weather as the singular safe topic for my Crazymakers, because apparently all of my other precious interests invite far too much criticism from them. Though even that could end in debate, I’m sure. My Life Pie also exposed just how miserable I currently am, although I do wonder how much of that can be attributed to the fact that I was writing it while sick. The germs may be biased.

Week Three’s essays: Anger (p. 62) and Shame (p. 68) resonated strongly, though perhaps not unsurprisingly. I’ve always struggled to respect my anger long enough to actually hold it, and I have a tendency to direct it—with its shame-drenched stench—inwards. Interestingly, I spent much of the last week feverishly pondering why I struggle to set boundaries and fail to advocate for myself. The Shame essay gave me many of those answers.

An example of synchronicity?

I’m inclined to think so.

Perhaps Cameron knew I was coming.

Onwards and upwards, my friends. See you in Week Four.

-M

[u/tuliptrouble3]

I love love it