Bujo sickness

This morning I slept in an extra two hours, just because I could. Then I got up, showered, did my physiotherapy, and looked at my phone.

And saw that I was an hour late for an induction at a new job which I had completely forgotten about.

Thankfully, I was able to call and come in late and they didn’t mind, even when I admitted I’d forgotten. On my way out the door, I remembered I needed to send some documents for my passport name change, and had to hunt around the floor to find the letter from my doctor. All of my important Adults Files are in various folders, but I often forget what’s in which, and sometimes important documents manage to escape. The morning ordeal put my whole day off kilter, and generally I’ve been feeling disorganized this week, after going away last weekend.

I work pretty cushy hours at the moment: between 15 and 20 a week. I meditate, go to bed early, and rigorously organise my projects and hobbies. Yet I still feel like I’m in a constant state of disorganization. I’ve never had a functional email inbox, my desktop is always scattered with documents, and I always put off cleaning for so long that it becomes an insurmountable task.

I know what I have to do to get my life in order, and I have the time to do it. I just completely lack the will. It seems to go hand in hand with other bad habits. Today I sat in the park eating too many cookies and watching Drag Race on my laptop, knowing that it would only leave me with four minutes after the end of the episode to rush into the school to teach a three-hour class.

Growing up, I was sold the image of the perfectly-organised person. I felt shame seeing girls at school (it always seemed particularly gendered) with pretty patterned folders for each subject, making multicoloured notes and detailed study plans. It was inaccessible to me then because of poor mental health, but now that it’s within my capabilities, there’s simply a gap of interest. Maybe I have the wrong attitude. I need to be a bit more Marie Kondo about things, and recognise the importance of cleaning and order, and maybe then my creative potential will overflow the cup.

Or maybe nobody’s actually organised. Because really, who has the time to neatly file and categorise everything? Tidying the crap off my floor is one thing, but having everything in order seems impossible with the slog and detritus of capitalist consumption. And in the end, is it really worth that much?

The bullet journalers (bujos for short) are the worst. I don’t think I’ve ever met a single person who could actually follow theirs consistently. Life always slips through the cracks. At least, that’s how I feel. Maybe you have to fill the cracks in.

2 thoughts on “Bujo sickness

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