Survival Check: Beating Burnout

Somewhere between absolute physical exhaustion and the mental mania that comes from sleepless nights cycling through every shortcoming, perceived mistake, and To-Do; a total melt-down is just behind that very fragile wall, carefully constructed every morning as I will my body to wake up. To get up. Left foot, then right foot over the edge to sit my body up. I have a family to care for. Work to be done. Looming over it all and just out of reach like Eeyore’s rain cloud is The Thing I want to do most, but just currently can’t.

It’s disorientating. Like a body continuing on after the head’s been cut off. Because quite frankly, my mind is in a million little pieces and it seems like more effort than what energy I have left to give to put it all back together again.

That’ll come later, when that elusive idea of time is mine again.

It’s a vicious fucking cycle. Because The Thing is the thing behind every other menial task, day time job, mom-ing, friend-ing, and the rest that drains me, and so when I’m done all the rest and have time … there’s nothing left to devote to The Thing.

No physical energy—and certainly no mental energy.

I picture my brain to be Route 66. Deserted, the odd tumbleweed, and just a little ominous. There’s always time if I want it; if I truly want it, there are ways to carve out five minutes here, even hours there, to do The Thing. But am I able at that point to feed The Thing with all the mental and emotional energy I would like to, so that I can walk away pleased with how I spent my time? Hells no.

And it hurts. A betrayal that I can’t escape because I’m the one who pulled the trigger: Too many yes’ I didn’t mean to do things I didn’t want to do, and took energy from the things that mattered. Even the simplicity of What would you like for dinner? is too much. That choice feels too hard, because all choices made feel like they were the wrong one.

How did I get here?

Breaks to the surface every once in awhile.

Because The Thing is what usually feeds my soul, and I’ve lost it. Even worse, I willingly let it happen. I gave up some time in April. My word count was behind, which became a point of focus that made me feel worse the more I agonized about it—which was every waking moment, if we’re really being honest—and therefore, the less I was able to write.

A vicious, self-imposed cycle of destruction. I didn’t even know about Pixar’s Anxiety yet, but if I could put a face to it … actually, it would look more like Chucky than Anxiety. Out to carve away my very being. Suddenly, everything I’d ever learnt about telling story flew the coop, and I didn’t even know my characters anymore. Characters I’d known and nurtured for fourteen years. Everything I loved about the process evaporated, replaced by bone-aching exhaustion that induced a mixture of nausea and the constant threat of tears.

If I really had to pinpoint the moment I first entered Burnout Phase was in February. My last surviving grandparent died. Whenever we spoke, she’d never failed to ask how my writing was going. To not be published in the sense of a book on a shelf, show on TV, or film on the big screen, planted that seed that I’d failed at the Big Dream for myself I’d been arrogant enough to let everyone in on. I never got to tell her “the good news.”

Then in March, my long-time manager and I parted ways, the same week I had my first general with an absolutely lovely producer whom I admire—and it went well, people, unbelievably well that I still can’t quite grasp that it happened. While I felt good about how it went, I was crushed that I no longer had representation. Talk about emotional whiplash. Am I really good enough? entered my consciousness at least 1.2 billion times that week—and the rest thereafter … but I just kept going, not really acknowledging the high or the low in a meaningful way. I never cried, but, oh, did my body ache to.

At the time, I was also working with a consultant on a writing project that’s been near and dear to my heart for what feels like forever; as entwined with my soul as very real, living and breathing children. But as those lows started to eclipse the highs without me even realizing, my creativity waned, and I couldn’t produce pages.

I was paralyzed.

It was like being in a relationship where I could only be happy around the consultant, my writing group … but alone? Even in the best of partnerships, you still need to know how to be happy all alone in a room. It’s what I always try to instill in my kids. How could I lie to them?

My inner cheerleader gave up. Failure was what I saw in the mirror. And it leeched everything out of me until my mental, social, and physical batteries were in a serious red zone.

From Burnout to Burning Bright

My family was the only reason I moved my feet out from under the covers some days, and put them on solid ground. Take the dog out. Eat breakfast. Lead by example. Fake it ‘til you make it. I did alllll that. And they’re pretty cool little humans I get to share my space with.

So much as we parent and take care of them, they bolster my spirit without even knowing it. I want to show up as my best for them, for my husband, friends, even in my job, and as a writer. Writing is the singular thing I do where time disappears.

And getting back to that joy started with "no."

Just little ones here and there to an extra dinner party or to one more episode at night so that I could get a start on sleep. I started noticing 11:11 every time it showed on a clock and took advantage of making a wish—and then diving back into the work of making those dreams come true.

Because by work, I mean the writing, because this isn’t a hobby.

To want to be a writer takes tenacity and a touch of delusion, let’s be real. You have to write for the love of writing—and be okay all alone in that room with your laptop—and the rest is beautiful (if not eventually well-paid as a full-time career) icing.

I’m seeing the light in the dark a little easier now again. I get up and write daily. I’ve thrown deadlines for it out the window because I don’t have to have one. There’s no studio breathing down my neck—yet. I can write for me, because that’s why I started this, anyway.

I start my day grounded in what brings me joy before tackling the rest: the job, the trying-to-make-the-writing-a-career part, the To Dos and the Wanna Dos. I choose more carefully and try to feel into its alignment with where I want to be and who I want to be.

I’m far from figuring it all out, but I look forward to my little daily writing routine. I’m just sitting my butt in the chair and writing. To an end goal, yes, but it’s not about the word counts or due dates … it’s really about the writing.

Do I feel good about the words I put on the page today?

Trust the process, they say. And you know, I never actually did. It’s a new perspective for me, and for now, it’s saving me from going into that red zone again. I highly recommend it.

*Feature image by Jorm Sangsorn (Adobe)