It seems that more often than not, I get to Thursday or so and I exclaim ‘This has been a long week!’
Logically, every week is the same. Five days of work, 3 days of writing thesis and a day of so of watching terrible reality television and cleaning. That adds up to 9 days. A week is 9 days for everyone, right?
I know that this craziness will end soon – 59 days time, in fact. That’s when I hand in my thesis and get those 3 days back. Until then, I spend my weeks exhausted and drained and wishing for a holiday and realising that there’s no chance in hell of one coming my way in less than 59 days.
Someone said to me that other day that they didn’t know how I did it. I just looked at them. I had no words (and for those who know me, that’s a rare occurrence). How do I do it? I just do. It gets done. Somehow. What’s the point in falling in a heap unless it means someone else does everything for you?
So I put one foot in front of the other, every day. I get up, go to work, work out when I can (it’s all about #wycwyc for me) and write as much as I can. I’m also gentle with myself. I know that Monday nights are exhausting so I’m not going to get any writing done and that’s okay. I know that I need my Friday night dinners with the family to recharge. I know that for the next 59 days, I need to say no more than I say yes.
And I need to get the eff off Twitter if I want to get any work done.