Routine is one of my crutches. It holds me up in the same way that Superman takes Lois Lane into his arms, as he saves her without once coming across as condescending. I’ve been living without a strong routine for the last year, and I admit that that has not been healthy for me. This is largely out of my control, and it will hopefully be able to make a comeback. And soon.
In second place position is habit. Habit is the second cousin twice removed from routine and I don’t believe it has our best interests at heart. Yes, there are good habits, but the very word itself smacks of doing something your heart has been persuaded to agree to.
Routine is generally our choice, something we have considered and slotted into manageable pigeonholes. We take things in turn and in good time and take comfort in knowing the start and finish point.
Habit is often not by choice but by expectation. An autopilot of response. There is so much scope for this to feel sludgy. Imagine doing your favourite thing over and over to the point that you begin to drown in the mind-numbing despondency of it.
I wonder if, like me, a lack of routine is contributing to how you feel. It doesn’t mean every pigeonhole has to be filled, but perhaps that you have made a point of leaving a few of them empty, all in a row, to be free inside.