Procrastination and I have been in a committed relationship for as long as I can remember. People love to toss advice like, “Just tackle the hard stuff first!” Sure, sounds great—until you’re stuck. Not just stuck, but frozen like a popsicle in the Arctic tundra, with this soul-crushing feeling that the task is utterly impossible. Even thinking about it makes my skin crawl. Why? No clue. Cue the peanut gallery chiming in with gems like, “You’re just lazy” or “Stop making excuses.” Oh, thanks, folks! That really motivates me to leap into action... except it doesn’t. Instead, I end up horizontal in bed, wallowing in self-pity, occasionally reading (if my brain cooperates) or cleaning like a caffeinated poltergeist.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been adulting since I was twelve. Cleaning, cooking, laundry, dishes, mopping, scrubbing the fridge (traumatic, by the way), and tackling the bathroom—all skills honed without a manual. Fast forward to marriage, where I leveled up to managing a household, two kids, a full-time job, and my mom, all while proudly wearing the title of CEO of Chores. Within a week, I’d burn out, retreat to bed, and let the clutter stage a coup. Dirty dishes, laundry mountains, and my ex-husband’s boot trail of doom were my arch-nemeses. He’d promise to help, rinse, repeat, and then—surprise—I’d snap. That was just one chapter in the saga. Prioritizing my mental health, I left. Lesson learned? Relationships with similar vibes are like bad sequels—skip them.
But did I actually learn? Not really. I stayed with my nine-year-old’s dad until his substance abuse, shoplifting escapades, and Oscar-worthy lies made it impossible. His health issues were likely a factor, but no one cared to dig deeper. Three major concussions left him relearning basics like his birthday and folding clothes.
My current relationship started strong but hit turbulence. First, my apartment became uninhabitable, forcing me and my son Mason to move in with my boyfriend Craig, while my daughter Peyton and roommate Carrie found a temporary place. Craig already had two roommates, so it was cozy chaos for six months. Then I caught COVID and found out I was pregnant—within 24 hours. While Craig and Mason dodged the virus, his roommates and I weren’t so lucky. In April, we finally moved back to my apartment.
At the time, I was managing a convenience store, and Craig worked at a different location for the same company. In May, the company decided to oust us—because we were part of the “old management team” (their excuse was more creative). I was five months pregnant, but hey, no big deal. Two days later, I landed a job at Family Dollar as an assistant manager. Craig found a new job a month later, but the night before his first day, he flipped over his bike handlebars outside my apartment and broke both wrists. Surgery revealed one break; the other was discovered later. Now Craig’s stuck recovering, unable to work, and I’m juggling life like it’s an Olympic sport.
