I woke up this morning with the gargantuan task of trying to polish the first three chapters of my dissertation while adding to chapter four. Everything in my body is screaming that I don’t want to write. I don’t want to sit here. I don’t want to write. I really don’t want to look at the damn thing today. I slept poorly, and I can’t seem to get the house to a temperature that doesn’t leave me freezing. None of these are real reasons not to write, but they do make writing feel like an inconvenience. I’m supposed to submit what I have done tomorrow morning so that I can receive feedback that will help me move forward.
I’m waiting to hear about a consult at the Mayo Clinic for a preliminary diagnosis of M.S. and either Lupus or a connective tissue disease. (The more I read, the more I realize that Lupus is most likely; and an ER doctor urged me to have testing a couple years ago, to which my GP responded, “You don’t have to worry about Lupus.” My current doctor is more than a bit livid about the other doctor’s lack of concern.) It’s not a matter of whether I have these diseases but a matter of the severity and progress of the diseases.
So I have this task of jumping through a final hoop, of completing this last piece of my graduate career, but all I can think about is that I’m wasting this day, wasting my desire to get out of the house, to be out in the world, and I’m wasting it sitting here writing this awful document that, when it comes down to it, no one really cares about. At least once a day it crosses my mind that I should quit. That I shouldn’t waste my time on this. And perhaps I shouldn’t. Then my favorite quote from my favorite Margaret Atwood book runs through my head. “Not yet.”
Don’t quit yet. You’re not sick enough yet. Hold out a bit longer.