As I type this, I’m freezing my feet off. I’m dressed in a long-sleeved, blue cotton-and-flannel button-up, black fleece pants comprised of this bear-looking thing wearing a sash and “AARGHH!” in the background (the tag has a Star Wars logo), a black shirt I got three dots of yellow acrylic paint on while making a minion ornament, and a lime green camisole under shirt.

Yesterday, I nearly froze my nose off doing and delivering laundry with Charlise—and if that doesn’t illustrate my post-scheduling habit, I don’t know what will. I also have a headache.

But, more problematic, is not how cold or broke I am, nor how I’ve worn this flannel sweater every day since I got it: it’s the influx of books in my queue and my utter lack of motivation to read.

Much of this is my own fault—it’s the holidays, I’m tired and stressed and exhausted out of my mind. I always forget toward the end of the year. I had it in me that I would finish reading Many Sparrows, and yet on this day (December 29), I am very much #CantBeBothered, #NoSeriously. It’s not the book—it’s me.

‘Tis toward the end of the year when those things I enjoy start to feel more like tedious things I have to do, inline with having to water the basil plant everyday to keep it alive and its pot climate tropical (ugh). These things I enjoy begin to feel like things I’m procrastinating with; I start feeling guilty because I’m reading and not driving myself mad to complete other tasks—whether they’re tasks for other people or for myself.

A similar feeling occurs when I, someone with a multitude of mental health-related issues, but also someone who experiences chronic fatigue and pain, am so exhausted that I hurt myself when I push against my energy limits to accomplish tasks others want me to accomplish. I feel guilty if I don’t do them, regardless of capability, but then I have even fewer spoons in the following weeks.

It doesn’t help that I am surrounded by people who think, “Ugh, Millennials!” aloud; I would be kidding and lying myself if I said that sometimes such criticism didn’t get to me. I feel like I have to run the well of my body dry to prove myself, and even then it’s not enough. It’s why the topic initially interested me and why it continues to, but I digress.

In 2018, I need to get better about pacing myself. I need not to stress myself so much. I don’t know what will even happen yet this year, but I need to remember self-care. It’s important.