Finally Choosing Me

I have finally accepted something about myself.

I may never become one of those beautifully organized women whose entire life exists inside one color-coded planner.

I have purchased the planners.

So many planners.

Apparently buying a planner and actually using a planner are two completely different hobbies.

Who knew?

I have calendars.

Lists.

Reminders on my phone.

Notes in my phone.

Alarms.

And yet, somehow, one of the most reliable organizational systems in my life remains a brightly colored square of paper stuck somewhere I am physically incapable of ignoring it.

The sticky note.

Need to take my medication?

Sticky note.

Wash my face and remember the lotion?

Sticky note.

Brush and floss my teeth?

Sticky note.

Put things back where they came from?

Sticky note.

Put my clothes in the hamper?

Sticky note.

Put my shoes away?

Apparently that requires its own sticky note.

These are not complicated tasks.

That’s important.

I’m not leaving myself reminders to renew my passport or refinance the house.

I’m leaving myself written instructions explaining how a hamper works.

Location Is Everything

I’ve also learned that you can’t just put the sticky note anywhere.

That’s amateur-level sticky noting.

It has to be somewhere I will actually see it.

For example, the bathroom door directly in front of my toilet currently contains two very important messages from Past Me:

PUT YOUR CLOTHES IN THE HAMPER!

and

PUT YOUR SHOES AWAY!

There is nowhere to go.

Nothing else to look at.

Just me, the toilet, and written instructions about basic household functioning.

And directly above those instructions is a sign informing me:

A CAT WILL BE WITH YOU SHORTLY.

Also accurate.

So apparently my organizational system now includes office supplies and feline supervision.

And here’s the really irritating part.

Sometimes I still don’t do the thing.

I see the sticky note.

I read the sticky note.

I understand the sticky note.

I completely agree with the sticky note.

And then somehow my clothes are still not in the hamper.

Surely Eventually I Won’t Need This

That’s the part that bothered me.

I found myself talking to my therapist about it.

Why can’t I just do these things?

Why do I need a note to remind myself to wash my face?

Why can’t I put things away without leaving myself written instructions?

Why can’t I just become organized enough that these things happen automatically?

In my head, there was apparently some future version of me waiting to emerge.

She gets up and completes her routine without reminders.

She takes her medication at exactly the right time.

She puts everything back where it belongs.

Her clothes land directly in the hamper.

Her shoes are never abandoned somewhere random.

I’m assuming she also meal preps every Sunday, drinks exactly the right amount of water, answers texts immediately and knows where all of her charging cords are.

I hate her a little.

But I kept waiting to become her.

And every time I didn’t, I treated it like evidence that I still hadn’t gotten my shit together.

Then my therapist said:

“You may always need the damn sticky notes, but that’s okay.”

Well.

That’s rude.

I pay this man to support me, and apparently he’s just going to destroy my entire imaginary future in one sentence.

Maybe the Sticky Notes Aren’t the Problem

But he was right.

And not just about the sticky notes.

He’s pretty good at catching me when I’ve quietly created some completely unrealistic standard for myself, failed to meet it, and then decided the appropriate response is to be mad at myself.

I do this more than I’d like to admit.

I don’t just want to improve something.

I create an imaginary version of myself who has completely mastered it.

Then I compare the actual me to her.

Actual Me rarely wins.

There is always another level I’m supposed to reach.

More organized.

More disciplined.

More productive.

More consistent.

Less distracted.

Less overwhelmed.

Less dependent on little squares of brightly colored paper telling me to brush my teeth.

And maybe some of those things will improve.

But what if I never reach the point where I don’t need reminders?

What if I always need systems?

What if there are always sticky notes on my bathroom mirror?

What exactly happens then?

Nothing.

That’s what happens.

I use the damn sticky notes.

What If This IS Me Being Organized?

That was the part I had backwards.

I thought needing reminders meant I wasn’t organized.

But maybe creating a system that helps me remember things is organization.

It just doesn’t look like the version I had pictured.

Maybe being organized isn’t doing everything automatically.

Maybe it’s knowing yourself well enough to recognize:

If I don’t put this where I can see it, there is an excellent chance it will cease to exist.

So I put it where I can see it.

That’s not failure.

That’s adaptation.

And apparently mine comes in assorted colors.

I’m still going to forget things.

I’m still going to walk past a sticky note occasionally and completely ignore the instructions I personally wrote to myself.

There will probably still be shoes where shoes do not belong.

I’m a work in progress.

But I’m starting to realize something.

I don’t have to become a perfectly organized person before I’m allowed to stop being disappointed in myself.

Maybe I’ll always need the damn sticky notes.

Okay.

I’ll buy more sticky notes.

Apparently, my brain requires office supplies.

At least now I know what to keep in stock.