Frozen

Frozen is the word for how I feel. I know what I'm supposed to be doing--working out, eating better, writing my story, writing my novel, writing my screenplay, knitting that damn blanket--and it's not that I don't want to do them. I want so badly to do them. I just can't make myself move. I sit in front of the computer and can't type; I pick up my knitting and stare at it.

I lie in bed, trying to force myself to get up and do sit-ups. I cook up a nice veggie casserole and eat ice cream instead.

I wonder if this is how Hot Mess feels, constantly self-sabotaging. I realise that my issues aren't quite as serious as his, but still--to know what you need to do to make life better and to not be able to do it. To only be able to do the opposite.

It almost--well, okay, no almost, it does, it makes you lose hope that things will get better if you can't make those small steps, if you can't let them get better. And when things don't get better, you know the only person you have to blame is yourself.

He lost his job because he was an asshole. I might miss my deadline because I haven't written this story. Things could go right, but they aren't going right, because when I try to do what's right, I freeze. And maybe, like Hot Mess, I'm just subconsciously scared of what will happen when I do finally get my shit together.

Or I'm just lazy.