Just in case you were wondering, I didn’t meet my self-imposed end-of-January thesis goal. Not that I’m surprised, really. I used to be the kind of person who never missed deadlines, but things are, of course, different now, and that’s OK. Really.
I’ve spent from the middle of January up to now scraping by instead of buckling down and getting my writing on. Considering the frequency of my seizures and the flare-up of my depression and anxiety, I should be happy that I’ve made any progress at all. Actually, I am happy with what I’ve accomplished, pathetically meagre it may be.
Though there’ve been a few weeks during which all I’ve been able to do is fulfill my teaching obligations, I’ve been picking away at my dissertation, sentence by sentence, footnote by footnote. I tend to ignore minor achievements, but given what’s going on in my head, a paragraph or two is nothing to scoff at. There’s no use beating myself up over what I’m not producing; better to recognize the little things and move on, best to put physical and mental health before academic work. So instead of waiting to collapse, I’ve been proactively taking breaks, eating large quantities of macaroni and cheese, and watching the Olympics. Lots of breaks. Lots of mac and cheese. Lots of Olympics.