Executive Dysfunction
God, I’m so lazy.
The mantra echoes over and over, bouncing off the inside of my skull in a constant drone. It’s background noise, like traffic, or the birds. Not that I can hear either of those things at the moment. It’s 3am, and like any sane person, the drivers and birds all are asleep. I have work in the morning and know I really should get to bed myself, but the low effort allure of scrolling on my phone has already drawn me back in. My exhausted body begs for sleep, my mind commands my body to put down the phone and crawl into bed, yet the scrolling continues.
My mind wanders as I search through my feeds like something new could have appeared in the last few minutes. Facebook, reddit, Instagram, and back again, over and over. My friends all seem to be going out for drinks, traveling, hiking, dating. Things I used to do. When’s the last time I saw a friend? Reddit is full of discourse on some gaming disaster or another, something I’d have played. Something I wanted to play, but now I can’t be bothered. Instagram is full of fitness models. There was a time I’d have been posting right along with them, but I’d gotten too pudgy for that months ago.
I look down at my flabby belly. It had started growing when I landed this development gig. Fully remote was a luxury I loved, but one that made seeing people require effort. It’s so much easier to just chat in discord and argue on the internet. As my social life vegetated, so did my motivation to work out. Loss of definition is one thing, but at this point I track time by each new stretch mark that spiderwebs my body.
This isn’t sustainable. I know it isn’t sustainable. My body begs to move and my mind craves companionship. My house is a trash pit. My therapist has always said that it isn’t about doing everything at once, but small, achievable goals. Doing the smallest, easiest good thing you can for yourself.
I sit up with a grunt, chip crumbs spilling off me onto the couch, and look around. I can’t change my life today, but I can make a start. Pushups? Squats? A look at my flabby thighs tells me that isn’t in the works. Maybe I could clean?
The trash can is in the kitchen, just steps away, and empty. I look at the empty chip bag next to me. I can toss the chip bag instead of leaving it. It would be so easy. I don’t even have to change the trash, I can just toss it and call it a win.
Now all I’ve got to do is get up and do it.
…just gotta get up and do it. Just got to grab it, get up and walk to the trash, that’s it. And I’m gonna do it… now.
…now?
NOW!
I swallow a wave of despair and ignore it burning in my stomach. Alright, so it’s not happening. So what? So what if my body won’t do what I want it to? I can work past this. I just have to break it down into smaller steps. Throwing the bag away is really multiple things: standing up, picking up the bag, walking to the can, opening the lid and then tossing it away. Five things is hard to do, so I just have to do it step by step. And that means standing.
Just standing. That’s all. And I’m going to do it now. Now. Right… now!
My legs don’t budge.
Okay, it’s okay, I just need to build up to it. I’m going to get up in 3… 2… 1… now.
Nothing.
Okay. 3… 2… 1… now! 3 2 1 now!
Doing it now. NOW!
Oh god. I can’t even get up. My mind is screaming, but I can’t even make my legs move, let alone get up. When the hell did I get this bad? I can’t even make myself stand. I’m so lazy. God, I’m so lazy. I’m so lazy, I’m so lazy!
The despair forces itself back with a vengeance. My eyes burn as I blink back tears. Why am I crying? I don’t deserve to cry. I don’t deserve to cry! I can’t even make myself stand, I don’t deserve to cry! Why can’t I do it? Why can’t I? Why? Why? Why, why, whywhywhywhywhy? I’m so weak. I’m so weak, I’m so fucking weak, I’m pathetic, I’m a lazy piece of shit. I’m a lazy piece of fucking shit. I’m a fucking piece of shit, I’m a piece of shit I’m a stupid lazy piece of shit I’m fucking worthless piece of shit I don’t deserve to cry I’m a piece of shit I’m a stupid piece of shit I’m-
I’m catastrophizing.
The word comes to me unbidden. I’m catastrophizing, I’m caught in a negative thought spiral. I’m concentrating, obsessing over this setback and it’s caught me in a loop of self hatred, and because of that I’m catastrophizing my challenges, I’m sabotaging myself. And I’m letting that sabotaged failure ruin my confidence and self image.
I reach for my phone. If I can’t make myself move, there’s still something else I can try. Something that doesn’t require me to even move. Something so small, so easy that I’m absolutely certain I can manage.
She’s at the top of my texts. The last person I’ve texted. The only person I’ve texted in a month. My therapist.
I open the chat and type out the message while I’ve got the momentum going.
‘hey Im in a bad spot. Can’t make myself do anything. In a spiral. Like I tell my body to do stuff and it just doesnt. Any help?’
I hit send.
It’s 3am, so I know there’s no chance she responds. It’s late. I should get to bed. Still, I’m going to scroll up and see if we’ve talked about this before. She’s so helpful, I’m sure it’s come up before, and even if it hasn’t, there’s gotta be something useful up there, right?
I read our last exchange, about a week ago.
‘Feeling like I can’t do anything. I want to but my body just won’t. What do you think?’
‘Sorry to hear that! That sounds like Executive Dysfunction. Here’s a video on the topic!’ Attached to her reply is an MP4 titled ‘Executive Dysfunction: how to combat it’.
My heart lurches. We’ve talked about this before? I don’t remember a thing about it, but apparently I’d already went to her about this a week ago. Why didn’t I respond to her?
If we’d talked about it before, surely the video would help. I hover over it, ready to hit play, but something stops me. Something rotten in my gut. It tells me to scroll up a little further, so I do.
A month ago.
‘Hey! I feel like I just can’t make myself do anything. It’s not like I don’t have motivation, I want to do it, but my body just doesn’t listen. Do you have any advice?’
‘Sorry to hear that! That sounds like Executive Dysfunction. Here’s a video on the topic!’ Attached to her reply is an MP4 titled ‘Executive Dysfunction: how to combat it’.
What the actual fuck? I’ve asked twice and just forgot both times? Her response reads more like a bot than my therapist. Though if I keep asking, I’m sure it’s just easier to copy and paste responses. Maybe I should check out that video…
That rot in my gut comes back and I scroll further. Two months ago, we’d had the same conversation. Two and a half. Three, four, five, six. Every few weeks I message her, every few weeks she gives the same reply, and I forget it every. Single. Time.
Something’s wrong. I keep scrolling and scrolling, glazing over our rote call and reply until finally there’s something different. A message sent nine months ago, just after I’d got this job.
‘I’m so sorry, but your new insurance doesn’t cover my services. I’m going to switch you to a new therapist that’s covered by your plan. You’ll get the full introduction at your first appointment but he’s here for any questions you have between then and now. Things should be pretty seamless, this is a work number so he’ll take it over from here. You have my personal if you need anything, please keep me updated! - Dr. Jennifer’
That seems vaguely familiar… shadows of a conversation along those lines, as well as a phone call with Dr. Jen on her personal number, shimmered in the back of my mind. So if I wasn’t texting Jen on this line, who..?
I scroll down. A brief introduction by someone called Dr. L, friendly chitchat, and then four days after the switch, a text asking for help getting my body to do what my mind tells it to.
‘Sorry to hear that! That sounds like Executive Dysfunction. Here’s a video on the topic!’ Attached to his reply is an MP4 titled ‘Executive Dysfunction: how to combat it’.
Oh god. What the fuck, what the fuck. What the fuck is going on? Am I stuck in Groundhog Day? Why can’t I remember ever asking this? Why can’t I remember even meeting this Dr. L in person? Have we even had an appointment? What’s in the video?
My pulse races and I suddenly feel hot. Sweat drips down my temple and my stomach is acid. Something’s wrong. Something’s very, very fucking wrong. I should text Jen. No, I should call Jen. When did we last talk? I swipe out of the conversation and scroll down my texts. No Jen, not even as far back as a year. I switch to my contacts and search ‘Jen’. Then ‘Dr. Jen’ and ‘Dr. Jennifer’.
Nothing.
I have to get away from the phone. I can’t read another of those texts. I can’t watch the video again. I can’t do this again, not again. Is this the first time this has happened? I mentally scream at my body to throw the phone. Smash it against the wall and free myself.
Nothing.
Fuck.
Again and again I order my body to do something, anything. Gently set down the phone? Nothing. Turn it off? Nada. Pause the app? Not a twitch. Oh god. Oh god, oh god oh god oh god I’m stuck, I’m stuck and there’s nothing I can do, I’m stuck I’m stuck I can’t do this, I’m stuck I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t-!
Breathe.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, just like Dr. Jen taught me in our first week together. I hold it for a moment, and let go. Breathe, in… and out. In… then out. As my heart rate slows, my thoughts become less fuzzy, they’re slower and more complete. Breathe. Breathe, calm, and think.
Okay. So I can’t do anything about the phone. What can I do? What do I have? I don’t have Jen’s number in my contacts, but I had it at one point. How did I get it? Probably an email, or… or a text!
My eyes flash open. It’s got to be there! A part of me hesitates to open my texts, but I brush that aside. It’s 3am, there’s no way this Dr. L replies. It’s safe, and what other option is there?
I swipe open the app and scroll, my eyes skimming for her number. No, no… there! A week before the switch she’d given it to me! I copy it and swipe back to send a new message, but as I paste it into the recipient box, my phone buzzes.
My heart skips a beat. A text. Could it be..?
It doesn’t matter. I’m right here. All I have to do is hit the button and send a message. One message. ‘We need to talk.’ ‘Call me ASAP.’ Even just ‘help!’. Any of those would be enough. Dr. Jen’ll call, or she’ll text, and no matter what happens we can figure it out. She’s smart like that.
I click ‘new message’. I click the text box. The keyboard pops up. Each letter is a strain.
‘H’
‘E’
‘L’
‘P’
Now I just have to hit send.
Just have to hit send.
Have to hit send.
Hit send… now.
Now.
Now. Now!
NOW!
My thumb hovers over the button. Freedom is centimeters away. Hit send! My mind is screaming out, but nothing’s listening. Just. Hit. Send!
I lift my thumb. My thumb lifts. I swipe back. It swipes back.
‘Discard message?’
No. No! No!
‘Message discarded.’
Tears trickle down my cheek as I scream internally. Stop. Stop it! Stop, obey me! I can’t even scream, only watch in wet, blurry horror as my body betrays me.
It scrolls up. One new message. It’s from my therapist. It opens it.
Just look away. Just look away and wait it out. Not even my eyes are mine. They stare at the screen as it scrolls down. They force me to read.
‘Sorry to hear that! That sounds like Executive Dysfunction. Here’s a video on the topic!’
Attached to the reply is an MP4 titled ‘Executive Dysfunction: How to Combat It’.
Silent tears drop on the phone as my thumb hovers over the attachment. My breathing is calm, my face is neutral, my pulse is regular. All I have are my tears.
It hits play.
