Production:nil, Webstress:nil

There is nothing more unproductive than sitting by your computer staring at the pathetic attempt of a flow chart, hysterical sobs escaping in fits and starts, like hiccups, hammering my hands on the desk, and then letting the hiccups join to just be a continual stream of body shaking squeaks and shakes.

I have tried everything today. All my usual tricks, even beans on toast for lunch, even a warm ribena to inspire my sugar deprived tongue. I want to scream and shout. I want to do work. I want to not feel this uncontrollable guilt that wraps itself effortlessly around my throat squeezing, squeezing, so it hurts to get the sobs out.

On days like today I don't know how to salvage myself. I almost feel like telling my work not to pay me. What have I achieved? What have I got to show? What have I proved, or completed, or resolved, or even started?

Yesterday I was inspired. There were conversations, ideas, bursts of energy and productivity. I told my boyfriend that I would stay in my job until the summer, maybe even longer, the money would help us so much, it would all be alright, I was okay, I was so lucky in my position and with my colleagues.

Today, oh today, I woke up intending on carrying that same enthusiasm, that energy, that excitement and dedication through, and onwards through the coming days.

I feel deflated, I am a waste of time and money today. I would be good at anything but this today, lethargy strangling what is left of my persistence in search of those last fragments of productivity. I don't understand. I don't understand why it isn't coming today, why it isn't there. I want to work, just someone help me, point me in the right direction, coax me forward, ease me gently, I'll work hard, I am worthwhile.

I can achieve, I will achieve, I must achieve.

But if I can't, why must I persecute myself so?

And, of course, on a day like today, I think of the possibilities that seem so very far away and just a resignation away. But no, no, not now, not yet. There are commitments, there are problems. The grass isn't always greener Ms forever figety, forever discontented, forever impatient and oh so desperate to know what she should be doing, whether she should put-up-and-shut-up, whether this is what she is good at, whether this is what she enjoys.

Surely I shouldn't have to tell myself this is what I enjoy? But then, I seem so exhausted with tripping over my thoughts that perhaps I do need a little help.

An hour and ten minutes to go and a production of nothing.