I love a good, classic loading screen. I
don’t mean those obnoxiously slow progres-
sion bars or the tracker timelines on food
delivery apps that halt on each stage for 15
minutes. My favorites are the small, simple
graphics that repeat in perpetuity with no
discernible end to their progression. The
repetitive, continuous motion is oddly calm-
ing. I love the little revolving lights that
circle around and around, lavishing away
the time. Or the hypnotic pulsing atop the
TikTok menu as it struggles to load new
content.
I love loading screens because, in that
ephemeral period of rendering, the stakes
are lower than low. It’s a liminal moment, a
beat between lines, a time to rest. There are
no expectations on you because, by nature
of the technology, there’s nothing you can
or should be doing in that instant. It’s like
the calm before the storm. I know that in
a moment, I’ll be forced to reckon with the
task at hand, but all I can do in the meantime
is wait.
As soon as the application loads, you’re
thrust back into the turmoil of anticipated
productivity; the clock resumes its inces-
sant ticking. Rest takes on a new name: pro-
crastination. My screen assaults me with a
thin, blinking cursor on the fresh Word Doc,
mocking and prodding with each flicker.
Now you see me, now you don’t. Why won’t
you put me to use? While the loading screen
represents a brief, sanctioned, finite hiatus,
the cursor could blink on in judgment for-
ever.
Sometimes I wish I could dive right
into the loading screen and ride the blink-
ing light on its ceaseless track like a digital
merry-go-round. More often, however, I feel
like the lone cursor, resting on the precipice
of potential, flashing in and out of existence
like a specter haunting the page as I conjure
up my next great passage. If I dwell too long
on the pressure of the task, I simply freeze
in place.
There is no gradient in the way I experi-
ence stress. Whether I have a deadline in
three days or three hours, if I’m struck with
writer’s block or my ideas won’t calibrate,
my anxiety will evoke the same measure
of stress. But every time I decide to take a
break, to indulge in the luxury of relaxation,
I can feel the pressure melt away. That same
sense of serenity is renewed every time I let
myself push the task off for another day.
I had a friend who told me once that she
liked to wear her retainer once a week —
no more, no less. She relished the feeling of
slight discomfort that came with the spo-
radic endeavor. Any more often, and her
teeth would have molded to their proper
places, undermining the purpose of the
exercise. Any less often, and she would be
denying herself the masochistic joy of the
experience.
That’s kind of how I feel about procras-
tination. I know that eventually, I’ll have to
address the task, but there’s a certain thrill
in letting the deadline inch closer and closer
for a buzzer-beating win. Counterproduc-
tive as the strategy may be, the risk is part
of the reward.
Stalling is a dangerous vice because its
short-term benefits eclipse the long-term
consequences. What is the point of punc-
tuality? Why would I ever elect proactiv-
ity over procrastination when the former
requires so much more effort and the latter
packs a more rewarding punch? I can live
with the blinking cursor’s nagging admoni-
tion, especially when I can simply close my
laptop and willfully forget.
***
W
hen I was in sixth grade, my mom
mysteriously vanished from our
Thanksgiving celebration early in the
morning. It was a full week before my dad
explained to my brother and me that our
mom had checked into rehab and was seek-
ing counsel for her alcoholism.
I don’t remember my mom’s addiction
being an imposition on our family. I was
only 11 at the time, and my brother was even
younger. Sure, my mom drank on vaca-
tions, but I couldn’t yet discern the differ-
ence between social drinking and drinking
to excess. She never drank and drove, she
never embarrassed me, but clearly, the issue
was severe enough to warrant treatment.
All I knew was that when my mom returned
home, she seemed happier and healthier than
I’d ever remembered her being. Last week
was her 10-year anniversary of sobriety.
I’ve always regarded my mom’s decision
to check into rehab as the pinnacle of matu-
rity and self-discipline. She had the remark-
able foresight to get ahead of her addiction,
addressing the problem while her children
were still young before it had the chance
to fester any further. As evidenced by this
decision, my brother and I were raised in a
household that valued accountability and
acknowledged the dangers of addiction.
There were no flippant analogies to
addiction in my house; no graphic tees with
the phrase “chocoholic” or “addicted to
naps” plastered across the front. I’ve pon-
dered the weight of this disease since before
my adolescent growth spurt. It’s one of, if
not the sole reason why I can say with com-
plete sincerity that I have addictive tenden-
cies when it comes to procrastination.
I wasn’t always prone to this behavior.
My whole childhood was an exercise in self-
censorship and perfectionism. I distinctly
remember the first time I ever dared to ask
my parents for something without already
knowing their answer would be yes. I natu-
rally fell into the mold of a “perfect daugh-
ter,” and some part of me was afraid that if I
started poking holes in that facade, it would
all come crashing down.
I was a top-notch kid. I don’t say this
seeking any praise. It’s just true. I got perfect
grades, had a diverse set of extracurriculars,
worked 30 hour weeks at the local ice cream
shop — the whole nine. I did everything that
was asked of me above and beyond. I had
high expectations for myself.
One night in eighth grade, I asked my
parents if I could go to a 9 p.m. movie with
a friend. It was a chilly fall school night, and
I’d finished all of my homework, but I wasn’t
sure if they’d let me go to the late show-
time that ended slightly after my curfew.
But when they said yes, a whole new world
opened up to me. I began to recognize my
own agency, particularly as it pertained to
abstaining from the expectations that I’d
always just assumed were requirements.
In my senior year of high school, I was
editor-in-chief of our school’s newspaper.
That was when I started pushing my luck
with deadlines. On the eve of the first edi-
tion, I realized that we were one-story short
from filling the pages, so I churned out 1,500
words in a single night and sent the complet-
ed edition off to the printing presses. It was
a successful bout of simulated procrastina-
tion — a gateway into the more egregious
offenses to come.
From then on, I procrastinated writing
at least one piece (if not two or three) until
the week of production. Quite frankly, it
was invigorating, because I just kept getting
away with it. I was hooked on the thrill of
inaction.
The tendency to postpone and binge
my responsibilities began seeping into
my formal academics. My class had a full
year to write our senior theses, but I wrote
mine over the course of four afternoons. I
crammed for every test the night before.
I would accumulate work over weeks and
weeks and then hole up in my room for a
weekend every month to catch up. And I still
graduated with a perfect record.
When I got to college, my self-destructive
habits began to catch up with me. A’s turned
to B’s turned to a whole semester of sealed-
off grades for classes that I barely passed.
I was a sophomore when the pandemic
hit campus and students were sent home.
For the next two semesters, I did the bare
minimum to get through my classes. I would
wallow in a depressive state for hours on
end, attend Zoom meetings with my camera
turned off and whip up a subpar discussion
post in 15 minutes before logging off for the
weekend.
I cut off contact with every campus orga-
nization I’d joined. I didn’t call my parents
or pick up when they called me. I would
check in every few weeks to let them know
I was still alive, but for the most part, I kept
everyone at a distance. This was my prover-
bial “rock bottom.”
Growing up, before I discovered the
splendor of edging my responsibilities, pro-
ductivity and punctuality were my default
modes. I never learned how to choose to
work. It was like I was functioning on auto-
pilot. Instead, I learned to choose by learn-
ing to let go. Yet once I’d let go, I didn’t have
the skillset to start back up again. Account-
ability is so much easier to destroy than it is
to create.
Sometimes I wish I’d never realized my
agency, the power I have to simply press
pause. Maybe then I’d be graduating with a
better GPA or a fuller resume. Maybe then
I’d be blissfully happy. But I catch myself
whenever I lapse into that line of thinking
and remind myself of my mom. If I hadn’t
gone down this path when I did, I would
have had to reckon with it later in life once
I’d amassed more to lose.
***
W
hen you’re addicted to a substance,
the treatment is simple: You cut
yourself off from the substance completely.
This is not to say that the process is easy or
inconsequential, but at least you have a road
map. When your vice is something like pro-
crastination, which will always exist as an
option, there is no way to avoid its persistent
beckoning.
During those few semesters, the urge
to procrastinate was debilitating. When-
ever I was overtaken by a passing thought
of guilt, I brushed it off by doubling down
in self-righteous inaction. I’ve since come
to terms with the fact that guilt has value.
It reminds you that what you’re doing is
wrong, and encourages you to reverse
course. I had to stop taking offense at rea-
sonable criticism, even when it came from
my own conscience.
I am still making an effort every day
to be better than I was yesterday. I am not
always successful. For example, I turned
this essay in over 12 hours after it was due
(sorry Statement friends). But the biggest
thing I’ve learned from my “lost semesters”
is that yesterday’s failure does not give me a
free pass to make the same mistakes today. I
have to choose to work all over again every
single day.
What is the benefit of punctual-
ity? Improved mental health, for one. Why
choose proactivity over procrastination? To
prove to yourself that you are capable of it.
Perhaps that is easier said than done, but at
least I know it’s possible. At this stage, that’s
enough for me.
It’s fun to submit an assignment days
before it’s due, with Canvas congratulating
me with digital confetti for a job well done.
The TV shows I used to employ as a dis-
traction from the compounding workload
are better without that constant twinge of
anxiety looming over me as I watch. Load-
ing screens are an earned respite when
you know you’ve been working hard, and
the blinking cursor is stripped of its power
when it’s met with a piece of writing that I’m
proud of.
MELANIE TAYLOR
Statement Correspondent
A Proclivity for Procrastination: The Story of My
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
8 — Wednesday, December 1, 2021
S T A T E M E N T
Design by Grace Aretakis
Page Design by Sarah Chung
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