Procrastination Purgatory

By Poppy Fitzpatrick

My fragrant bed sheets hang damp on the clothesline in the afternoon breeze. The plants on my windowsill are freshly watered. I can see my reflection looking up at me from the bathroom tiles; they’ve never looked so shiny, and my furrowed brows have never looked so perfectly groomed. I can finally close my chest of drawers, which I’ve manically re-organised. Thank you, Marie Kondo.

Everything is in place. Everything is perfect.

Except, of course, for the long list of things that absolutely are not.

My inbox overflows with unread emails; my messenger app sits dormant as days-old conversations are left unopened; a terrifyingly blank white page plagues my every thought.

Now seems like the perfect time to walk the dog. I block out the white page with the white noise of a podcast. Another hour is gone and a few thousand steps are gained, along with a uselessly deepened knowledge of the science behind procrastination.

In my frantic search for relief in science and logic, I am instead burdened by the realisation that I’m stuck in a paralysing pattern of self-sabotage. Procrastination, so I thought, was only a minor quirk of laziness. But apparently it stems from deeper emotional roots of selfdoubt, perfectionism and avoidance. Emotional regulation, which procrastinators often lack, gives the ability to begin a task that may feel challenging and uncomfortable. In other words, non-procrastinators are able to delay instant gratification in the anticipation of the wellbeing and satisfaction of their ‘future self’.

I’ll have to Google some self-help on this. But I can do that later.

Thinking about how much time I’m wasting sends waves of anxiety through my stomach, yet my fingers still hover over the keyboard, unable to escape the procrastination purgatory I’ve trapped them in.

I force my fingers to type another line, but somehow find them mindlessly reaching for the hundredth spoonful of the ever-decreasing jar of biscuit spread. I remind myself that eating is yet another unsuccessful form of emotional regulation. But my goodness, it’s delicious.

I clean last week’s toast crumbs off my laptop keys. I cook a bulk batch of vegetable curry. I check in on my sad friend. I squeeze my blackheads. I colour coordinate my wardrobe. I polish my shoes. I call my parents. I message friends for knock off drinks, begging for an excuse to leave the four walls of this small white prison. I scold myself for my total lack of drive. I medically self-diagnose my inability to focus as some sort of neurological disorder.

The guilt, blame, and ‘negative self-talk’ resulting from procrastination has an entire body of research dedicated to it. The Procrasintation Cognitions Inventory maps the automatic thought patterns that arise during procrastination, which unsurprisingly are psychologically distressing. Ironically, my avoidance of negative emotions in the shortterm actually exacerbates the feelings I’m trying to avoid. Maybe this means I could get a medical certificate? That would buy me a few more days. Then I could organise the pantry this afternoon. I slam my laptop shut. I’ve decided to let myself off the hook, but the suffocating stench of defeat lingers in the room. Yet when I open the door, the delicious waft of vegetable curry replaces it. My sheets, now crisp and dry, wave at me as they bask in the glorious afternoon light. The dog lolls on his mat with content. My skin is absent of small black blemishes. My sad friend is doing okay; better now, knowing I was thinking of her. Maybe the time wasn’t entirely wasted.

The deadline anxiety dissipates just long enough to let a creative thought strike. I reopen my laptop, and within the hour I fill a page.

It’s not great. But it’s something. And sometimes done is better than good. Whilst having high standards for myself is usually a good thing, I have to let go of the perfectionism and let the details slide—forgiveness and self-compassion are said to be the antidotes to procrastination.

I can’t help but see the beauty in the fruits of my distraction. Because whilst drowning in a pool of self-induced stress, I am reminded that life keeps happening around me. At least now it’s happening with clean floors.

But I’m also exhausted from all this procrastination. So that’s going to have to be enough for now. I’m off to have a beer.■