Burnout

The doctor opened the door, leaving it slightly ajar while I tried to squeeze through the gap. I lug an overfilled handbag, in one hand, a bunch of scripts and the other some rumpled, snotty tissues. “There’s never a dull moment in your life!” she said as she shooed me out the door. I grimaced and kind of fake laugh, shaking my head. God.

I arrived with a sore shoulder and scuttled out with some scripts for sleep, a low dose pill and some kind of topical gel for rage. It may have been my throw-away line like “I’m also becoming an angry middle-aged bitch.” She asked whether I was taking anything for the bursitis pain, which I thought would pass a year ago,  how my sleep was (never enough) what are my stress levels like, (more than I need) and exercise (evaporated totally since the shoulder injury).

She suggested I had adrenal fatigue. I was working for two companies, managing after school activities for two kids, running on daily fuel of about a litre of coffee packaged food at sporadic hours. In addition to this, I was studying a diploma of counselling, volunteering one day a week, and my husband was pretty absent and working away a lot. There was so much on my mind, so many balls in the air, I became overloaded and lost focus. I had a car accident and my period stopped. Then I stopped doing everything that once brought me joy.

After the rear-ender, had some whiplash and shoulder pain; this was followed by restricted movement, countless rounds of physio, and two useless cortisone injections.  It meant I didn’t go to yoga, I stopped being the fun mum, piggy-backing my kids to bed, and I stopped running. I stopped hanging out with friends because I was busy with work and the kids and driving, back and forth. I ferried the kids to their after and before school activities, so their lives would be broad and rich and full of culture while mine was diminishing and narrowing into a darkened vortex of work space and car space and the mindless driving, driving, driving.

I became too cranky to meditate and I became Shouty Mum again. I wish someone had shouted at me “Yoo-hoo! Self Care!” I wish I had written that down on a very large piece of paper and stuck it to my fridge. Everything that I needed to hold me together, I had let slide.

My weekly stress busting exercise of running a few ks around the block, slowed to a once a week guilty walk. My new way of blowing off steam was to belt out loud power ballads with the radio in my car. The quiet had stopped. The space between things had shrunk. There was nowhere for me to land. I’ve done burn out before in my twenties, that was a car crash on the Sydney Harbour Bridge, a bout of shingles and a one way ticket overseas, I kept running, never really letting anyone help me.

My over thinking had become out of control, my patience a ragged thread. The nice part of me, the one that used to be helpful, compassionate and understanding was blurring out and in its place was impatience, numbness and rage. I had nothing more to give.

I realised I had this during a work conversation, as I quickly glazed over, losing interest. A scream in my head yelled “Why don’t you just shut the f up and get out of my office?” My blank look did nothing to discourage the person talking about the problem they had had with a colleague. “For god’s sake!” the voice in my head screamed, “I’m holding my handbag and my keys, please leave, so I can pick up my kids from school without break the sound barrier”. Go somewhere else and word vomit about your day.”  I smile. Disconnected from the me smiling.

Instead, I lose it in traffic.  I save it all for the motorway. “Are you freaking kidding me?”  “Thanks for the warning buddy.” “Really, now, you too?” “No one thought to let me know it was a no indicating day??” Crank up the power ballads.

My Doctor explains it to me “It’s because your hormones that kept you stable for so long are ramping up and getting into frantic mode. Your fertility window is closing and those luteinising hormones are whacking the heck out of your ovaries.” She is lovely, descriptive, and brutally honest. She talks with her hands, which I like. She smacks her fist into her open palm. “ This is what happens when you get hit by the RAGE” She taps her computer screen bringing up a list of medication we can try, she mentions: gels, creams, pessaries, oral contraceptives, IUDS, hormones which go under the skin, something called a marina which just sounds too big to go anywhere. I am overwhelmed and I cry.

“Really?” I say. I spent most of my life trying not to get pregnant, now I’m at the gates of menopause, I still have to consider these things? She sighed, shrugged with her palms up and rolled her eyes. She didn’t need to say it, the sigh and eye roll meaning, “The shit we women have to put up with is phenomenal, then they sweeten it up with a longer life expectancy.”

After I admitted I probably had one solid night’s sleep in ten years, she offered me sleeping tablets and anti-depressants. I can’t take sleeping tablets because my children don’t sleep. I consider taking the pills, grinding them up and adding them to their little bowls of rice or mashed potato.

“I’m not very good with chemicals” I say, “I’m pretty sensitive.” She looks at the screen, “Still not drinking?”  I nod. “The pain killers aren’t addictive or anything”, she looks at me.  Like I’m an addict. Like pain killers aren’t addictive. I say no to the antidepressants and the pain killers.  I get why she might want to offer them, I’m tired, I’m hormonal, I’m stretched, I’m in pain, but the thing that tipped me over was that I stopped everything else I needed. Everything that helped my sanity.

I remind myself to breathe. Drink water. Eat food which doesn’t come out of plastic wrap or a can. Pour myself another tea. Look up my yoga time table. Meditate.

Until the Doctor explained it, I didn’t understand it was out of my control. I couldn’t understand why I had become so angry. I now see I had suppressed a lifetime of emotions by swallowing them down with alcohol. This allowed me to soften the blow, vent my anger, in a sociably acceptable way.  But I wasn’t getting the help I needed with the mindless drunken venting to friends. I needed a counsellor, not a wine. Now I see what happened, no exercise, no yoga, too much stress, kid wrangling on my own, pain and no place to vent.

I can normally moderate myself with exercise, food, meditation, sleep or friends. But the angry hormones were something extra adding to the mix. The increased cortisol, the adrenalin overload, the depletion of energy, the fatigue, the tears. The overwhelm, and just wanting to lie down and for everything else to go away.

I’m not big on medication, I have lots unfilled prescriptions. I suffer through a cold, burning eucalyptus oil and sipping lemon tea. I get a massage for headaches; I’ve never had to medicate my mood. This time I understand, there is a chemical imbalance, my hormones are going into overdrive, my stress levels are through the roof and the additional pain is reducing my sleep and energy.  This time, I say to the doctor, give me the things you think will help. I’ll take care of the rest.

I consider, how as a society, we soothe our souls, suppress our pain, rage, hurt and sadness. Life is complex, fuller than ever before, we are bombarded by media, social media, which shows us how our life could be, if only we had the right car, right house, right lounge suite. Life is a lot louder, with added colour and texture. Everything is a competition. We all are expected to want more from our lives now.

I’ve done some work on mine. I’m back at yoga, the gym, catching up with friends, a counsellor, listening to my meditation app and booking massages as often as haircuts.

This time I know what to do, I live my life, my way, with external supervision. I ask for help when I need it. I’m too vibrant to burnout.

 

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For all Mothers – the organised and disorganised

“Mum you have inspired me for when I become a mother,” said my eldest child, a few weeks ago. She has my full attention. She is not talking about her Spotify playlist, growing by the minute with hip hop artists singing about their girlfriend’s butts, she is not telling me why she needs to go shopping because all her clothes are too babyish, or could I please not buy the rice crackers for school snacks as everyone else has chocolate biscuits. She is talking about how I have inspired her. I’m all ears.

We sit at the kitchen bench, where all important topics are covered. I wipe a space for her elbows. “You see,” she begins nervously; I can tell this is important to her, or difficult to say. I wait, head cocked, with the listening face. “I’d like to be an organised mother,” I nod for her to continue, but also to acknowledge the rare praise she is anointing upon me for being organised.  “I want to have in-trays for all my kids, so they can put their school notes in and we can make sure we pay mission money on time and have the notes signed for the teachers.”

I’ve seen this too in a magazine. White in-trays lined smartly along a hall table with the children’s names inscribed. She found it on Pintrest. I remember seeing it and thinking it looked like a great idea, a sensible, structured idea. Until I realised, as a mother, I’m neither of those things. I ditched that idea soon after my first child was born. I waltzed into the hospital with a four page birth plan, outlining my need for no pain medication, no medical intervention, a six CD play list, scented candles, incense and a novel. The medical staff must have had the same knowing look I had with the organised mother comment. Let’s see how this goes, shall we? I emerged traumatised, two days later, after a 27 hour labour failed to progress, I had an emergency caesarean, a smorgasbord of drugs, the intervention of several doctors, one wearing white scrubs and rubber boots like he had come in from the dairy, and a small child. I learned a few lessons at the Mater Mothers.

  1. Life is unpredictable
  2. Children don’t follow a schedule
  3. No amount of planning can prepare you for some things that just happen

I think about how I am organised in life. I’m quite organised at work. My appointments are documented, client notes are entered on the system, I have a check list of how things go, my to do list of what I have coming up. I schedule times, book appointments, manage reminders.  I check in, follow up, research, share information. I think about how this year has unfolded, how I have relocated my business to a new clinic, across town, how I need to manage my hours around my children’s activities, fit in some after hours appointments and weekend workshops, how things are beginning to take shape.

Home is a place where things are allowed to slide. Our bags hit the floor, we eat, I put the washing on, we  watch TV, play music, eat, tidy up, read, sleep, shower, start the next day.  Groceries are usually on the fly, exercise fits in where it can and sometimes we just rest. Home to me, needs to be a place of sanctuary, away from the structure and constraints of work and school; a place to recover from straight rows of traffic and the enforced lining up, of running late and lugging bags full of equipment.

I have signed many notes, ticked boxes and given medical details for the gazillilonth time but sometimes these remain stuck under a fridge magnet while other notes pile on top. Some I have remembered to return, tucked into smug little envelopes with the monetary amount written on the outside and addressed to the office or teacher. Sometimes I have had to sidle up to the teacher at school, and give verbal permission for things. Sometimes, they don’t make it out of the school bags at all; until they are scooped up at the end of term clean out, stained pink by mystery lunchbox swill.

The mission money did go to school eventually, after the reminder emails were sent out. As for the raffle tickets for last year’s fete which were put in the first aid box when we renovated the kitchen, that was a legitimate mistake. For which I had to send an apologetic text to my friend, who had posted me a notice on school letterhead stating I needed to have a stat dec. signed because they were raffle tickets and fell under some government or catholic legislation to do with numbers and gambling and competitions. When I did find them three months later, it was too late.

My daughter looks at me, I see her with her idea of how she would like to be as a mother and I know about the best laid plans. I begin to defend myself and realise it is futile. I have missed things, I accept the blame is partly mine, I realise it can be shared by a preoccupied mother and worn out children. I understand there have been other priorities this year. I don’t want in-trays in my house. In my study and at work, sure, but I don’t want them lined up in my home suggesting the military precision of the Von Trapp family.

I’m as organised as I can be. I have sticky notes in my handbag, a black board with last week’s activities on it, half rubbed out notes scribbled on my hand, a mobile phone with confusing appointments which sometimes start at 5am instead of pm, a diary with work appointments and two kids with multiple activities to add to the list of mine and the schedule of my husband’s work trips. It makes sense to me. We are loosely scheduled, which is how I like it. If one is too tired to swim on Monday, we go to the Friday session. We sometimes skip choir, because ten minutes sleep in is more important to tired leg muscles recovering from netball training.

I swing and sway with the activities, based more around compassion and the need for small parts of the day where we can switch off. Places where we can park commitments, obligations and have time for a hug or a snack together, or just hanging out. Time to connect, to chat, to play and laugh. I can’t be the in-tray mother, all white and wicker, all clean benches and 7 pm bedtimes. Life doesn’t happen like that.  Today we skipped choir, because last night we were all cuddled up watching The Voice together, after showers and a leftover meal. Bedtime was later than normal, because they decided to share a bed together which was followed by giggling and laughter for twenty minutes longer than usual.

We don’t fit into the busy, scheduled, in-tray life where kids have structured play and down time. Sometimes life offers up opportunities to gather and connect with each other and these fall out of the discipline of schedules. The time we have with our small children has an expiry date, some day they won’t have time to sit and snuggle with me.

Soon, I won’t have their sleep warmed bodies crushed close to me in a morning hug, their tangled bed hair to brush out, and their teeny underclothes on the line. They will have their own homes, children, jobs and schedules, where they will choose to find time for me.  I will no doubt be where they left me, drinking lukewarm coffee at the kitchen bench, with a half open book beside me, scribbling down a shopping list or to do list, with the curled yellow edge of a reminder note from their primary school camp peeking out from under the fridge.

 

 

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