Allergies

Spring. . . the time when the snow melts and the deciduous trees' leaves bud.  Temperatures rise, and. . . everyone starts sneezing. 

This is a pretty obvious phenomenon; when plants' pollens permeate the air, people who don't have immunity inhale and begin an extremely complicated reaction based on an evolutionary weakness.  This is what we, in the advanced scientific community, call an "allergy."


My sister was unfortunate on this front.  She, like many others, had about a hundred million different allergies, from plants and animals and rocks and subatomic particles that you would only find if you traveled to the unexplored regions of the Amazon rainforest.  This ultimately caused her to need vaccinations for them, starting with three shots per week, and slowly diminishing until the regimen was completed.  In other words, she was basically a sneezing pincushion before and during these treatments.  Now, however, she can go within a thousand feet of a vast array of flora and fauna without needing a box of Kleenex tissues. 

I'm the lucky one in the family:  I don't have allergies.  Or so my formal health records say. 

Like I said, it's not documented, but I have a pretty crippling allergy that impedes my work just about constantly.  It beats me down with a super-intense force like a jock preying on a nerd.  Most people look for solutions to their maladies, but I fear there is no cure.  I've had it my entire life, but only over the past few years has it become so debilitating I don't even leave my bed until my 5 o'clock feeding.

I am one of many who suffer from a potentially-fatal disease called "Effort."  It's a constant battle.  I have adverse reactions every time I must exert it, and I don't know how I can live with the pressure.

Most people do things.  Everyone says "Oh, gosh, I'm such a terrible procrastinator!" as they get their work done three days in advance.  Deadlines never slip by for them.  They work incrementally and complete tasks as necessary.

But I don't.

Or at least not always.  Sometimes certain projects catch my attention, and it doesn't register as Effort.  I see it as a fun time, something that doesn't bother me.  Like writing.  Any report, essay, free-write or blog post I have to do, I enjoy, and so I get it done.  But as soon as I'm handed an assignment with short-answer questions or multiple choice answers or charts, I curl into a ball and cry, my face swelling and my laptop opening to any one of many time-sucks.

And these are the projects that never get done.  I had an assignment due this morning.  It wasn't even difficult, I just had more captivating things to do.  I learned about Mormons and obscure vulgarities for hours.  I worked out and ate an unholy amount of food.  I read some hilarious webcomics.  But I did not put a single second of my precious time to finishing this ridiculous project.

This morning, I walked into the class, handed in the page or two that I had somehow completed (the only remedy to my boredom is reaching the end of a certain webcomic series and not having another to follow it up) and walked out immediately.  The class wasn't cancelled, it wasn't over or anything, I just didn't want to be there.  Because, you know, Effort.  I went back to my room and slept. 

I slept for an hour and a half, because class activates two things for which I have low tolerance (only the latter is a legitimate allergy):  Patience and Effort.  This is a devastating compound that reacts with synergistic effects* and for all intents and purposes puts me in a coma.  I don't like comas.

Anyway, I'm not a normal human because of my science-fiction-like impairment.  Most people can tell when they've hit rock bottom, but I'm going deeper than that.  I feel no responsibility to exert myself except for my own gain, and I can't really stop this cycle.

The internal dialogue I deal with regarding such conundrums, like the one from this morning:

"Well gee, isn't it time to start that thing?"
(Maybe if I play dumb I won't have to do it)  "What thing, Ursus?"
"Well, Ursus, you know that thing you were assigned two weeks ago?"
(Crap, I know exactly what project I'm talking about)  "The one due at the end of the month?"
"No, the one due tomorrow afternoon."
(Time to make excuses)  "Oh. . . Nah.  I can do it in the morning, right?"
"What about your classes?"
"What about them?"
"You need to go."
"No, I don't."
"Oh, yeah."

And this is how it proceeds, most of the time.  Sometimes I feign seriousness and remind myself later about it, but it doesn't usually go well.

-Wakes up at 8am-
"Hey, get up, Ursus."
"Go away for a few hours."
"No.  You said you were going to do work this morning."
"But. . . the bed. . . it's so soooooooft."
"I know.  You can do your work on it."
"DON'T EVER SAY THAT WORD AGAIN!"
"Okay.  Are you going to do it?"
-Snores-

And this is what happens to me.  Rather than risk hurting myself with a reaction, I just simply steer clear of anything that might hurt.  Perhaps, in the future, when I'm sitting in the gutter, watching the other hobos eat, I'll realize I need a job and I'll have to get over my inhibition, but until that day, I think laziness is an acceptable outlet for me. 

I know I'm not alone in this fight.  Allie Brosh, some famous chick you may or may not have heard of (she writes the spectacular blog Hyperbole and a Half, and you should probably check it out), has this disorder, but she's cured herself, mostly.  She taught herself to feel bad about what she does (or doesn't, rather).

I tried with a similar method:

"Ursus, that project is due in fifteen minutes and it'll take maybe five to finish it!"
"So?"
"You had ALL morning to finish it, you piece of crap!"
"Don't call me names, douchewad!"
"You started this when you didn't do your work, and now I'm gonna kick you in the balls if you don't just finish it!"
"Do it!  It's your balls, too!"
"Crap."

So trying to hurt myself with names doesn't work.  Threatening myself with a kick in the balls doesn't work.  Nothing at this point works.  I'm not even ashamed of myself with this, though, because I don't want to get sick.  I don't want Effort beating me down and curb-stomping me.  I don't want to deal with the pressure, the pain.

And my work sits on my desk.  I play computer games.  I listen to music.  And I write blog posts.  But, for any amount of reward, for whatever punishment to my nads, I do not do legitimate work. And that's how it is probably going to stay, as long as I can get away with it, as long as there is no cure for my allergy.  And you know what?  That's how I like it.


*The synergistic effect is one that causes an exponential growth based on certain variables working in tandem, such that, for a basic example, 2x2=8.  For example, if you are drinking alcohol, you can get drunk.  If you take any random medicine, you will feel the effects of that random medicine.  If you get drunk while on a medication, you don't just get drunk, you don't just get the medication's effects, you get whacked out of your gourd, stoned out of your mind, tranquilized to the point of being comatose.  You get freaking killed by your own stupidity.  So that's synergy in a nutshell.