I don’t know about you, but sometimes I want to read a person’s story and other times I just want to listen to their voice. I get it! That’s why I’ve also created an audio version of this blog. Enjoy them both! Flic x

I’m feeling burnt out from my burnout

I'm not sure how I managed to pull this one off. But, somehow I did. You see, my mental health and I, well, we've had it up to here with bloody burnout.

To be honest, I'm now feeling burnt out from my burnout.

Bonkers? I know.

I’m sat here wondering if I will ever get back to being my cheerful and optimistic self? Is my mental health really this messed up? How do I stop feeling as mad as a bag of badgers?

Rumination is brewing so I reach for the nearest distraction and start to tidy up my living room. Thankfully, I found one. Well, two to be exact. My attention is diverted when I find myself pondering whether to eat the red foil-wrapped chocolate Christmas jingle bell that I found between the sofa cushions or the pink foil-wrapped Easter egg that I found on the windowsill behind the curtain.

It's now May, so technically, both foiled festive shapes are under five months old. And let's face it, there could be condiments hidden at the back of my fridge that should have been chucked out bloody years ago.

I struggle to make a decision, so I eat both. The end.

Except it's not the end because I feel rough today. I can’t hide from this. And it's nothing to do with some dodgy old lost and found chocolate.

It's all fun and games until Alice Cooper shows up

Write about your experience, I thought. Share your situation with others, I told myself. Use your writing to enlighten those on the edge of burnout, helping them resist all temptation to overstretch themselves and jump into the pool of exhaustion.

The problem was I failed to spy any of the warning flags that were on my horizon. I felt so much better talking about my burnout, so I presumed I was cured, teetering on the edge of invincibility even.

Hmm, not so quick, sugar tits.

The day after I wrote my sixth blog —a heart wrenching piece that though made me laugh, also Ied me to shed some serious tears—I found I’d slipped, tripped and fallen right back into the swimming pool of bloody crazy. With mascara running everywhere, I'm now a dead ringer for a cuddly, curvy, foil wrapped chocolate lovin' Alice Cooper.

Not a look I was ever intentionally aiming for.

Burnout blisters are brutal

In writing and sharing about my burnout experience, I was able to step back in time to relive and feel every ounce of pain, heartache, and exhaustion that led to my burnout. I’m still carrying a few of those overachieving tendencies in my pocket, so naturally I not only excelled at doing this but I also prodded and picked at the burnout stitches— landing me back on square one.

Ugh. Fuckity-fuck.

I'm once again feeling the burnout heat. I find myself emotionally and mentally exhausted again. I’m standing with my shoulders slumped, charred, and sporting some singed smoky hair. Have I really regressed to the point where I was seven months ago?

I guess, even if you love doing something. Overdoing it, still gives lethal eye contact to burnout.

It's like having the biggest blister on your heel after wearing those gorgeous, yet overpriced, uber uncomfortable, but "oh so fabulous" new shoes that you just wore for a night out.

Fuck, is that it? Do I have a burnout blister?

Burnout blisters sting like a mother trucker. And the best thing to do with any blister is always, ALWAYS, leave it alone and allow it to heal in its own time.

So here I present a prime example of mental and emotional healing having neither a set menu to order from or being a set destination to arrive at.

Stick a fork in me...I'm done. You too?

I AM DONE, to the point that you could stick a fork in me and see I'm beyond fully cooked. Hot as hell on the inside with a scorched crisp exterior.

I'm so over overwhelm. Maybe you are too?

I'm now pissed off with feeling pissed off. Sound familiar?

I'm so tired of being this bloody tired. With me?

I'm even getting fed up with eating Malterasers for breakfast. Just me? Oh, okay. I knew I needed to stop at some point.

I declare enough is enough. And yes, I typed that statement with a belly full of fire and anger as I pounded laptop keys using exclusively my middle fingers.

Burnout is tough. So is living in a global pandemic. A groundhog day of burnout or lockdown life is never fun. So why did I take both of these ingredients, place them in the toaster on the highest setting and then spread them thickly with self-doubt, isolation and a dash of perimenopause?

Honestly? I don't know. Perhaps it's just being human.

More laughs, less badgers

If you're reading this and feeling exasperated with life, I appreciate you don't always want to be told to go to bed early, stop drinking alcohol, eat yer greens, take things off your plate, or create self-care boundaries that say "don't bother me with your shit".

It may be what you need to do, but sometimes you also need something else.

What you also want is a spoonful of comfort in knowing that someone has and still is, working their way out of the crazy. That someone else is also trying to tackle life, mad as a bag of badgers. You want to hear their stories (often ridiculous, I couldn't make this stuff up) of hope and humour. Because when all the hidden chocolate Easter eggs have been found, we all need something to smile at and lift our spirits for a moment.

I’ll dust myself off, again

Right now, I only have to look in the mirror to see my current fatigued, yet humorous, state of affairs. All hail the 24-hour rotation of daily black leggings and baggy T.shirt combo that check all the versatility boxes:

Fitness gear for walking to the fridge.
Loungewear for lying on the sofa balancing a laptop on my chest and a cup of tea on my midriff.
Napkin for wiping salty fingers after the demolition of a family-sized bag of crisps.
Pyjamas for commando crawling upstairs and climbing into bed. No judgy side-eye is required; it's not like I left the bloody house today.

Underneath this 24-hour adult version of a onesie is a woman ready to move on and get back to some kind of living and life. My sloth-like badgers need to throw on their own bloody leggings and get back in the bag.

It's time to stand up, again. I'll dust myself off, again. I’ll salute that bit of lockdown tub I've acquired, throw on some red lippy and raise a glass of something cold and bubbly as I toast and instruct my burnout to get the fuck outta here.

Baby steps continue to be taken with raw honesty and humour. Knowing that some days are better than others, I will slowly but surely say no thanks to burnout and NO to it defining who I am.

Writing and sharing my story may have helped me process some of the past events but it sure as hell didn’t provide any immunity against my triggers. I must take note of this and remember that nothing can protect me from unravelling again in the future.

I now recognise that healing is my opportunity to practice showing up for myself. It’s a chance to practice patience (not one of my strengths) and being gentle with myself (not too hot at that either). No more soul and chest crushing pressures are to be embraced or tolerated.

Instead, I’ll practice observing and allowing those awkward, tough shitty feelings to surface— then I’ll move on. If they show up again one day, I’ll give them another nod of acknowledgement, and once again, move on. After all neither myself or life is perfect. And that’s okay.

Next step? Shimmy myself out of these bloody leggings. You know it's bad when these bad boys start feeling a little too snug.

What's after that? Check the other sofa cushions and behind the other curtain for any more abandoned festivity foiled chocolate gold.

It's still good. It's all good. Let’s just keep moving forward. You with me?

Flic x

P.S. If you know a woman struggling with #everydayburnout please send her this article and tell her from me that she is not alone.

Burnout and feeling as mad as a bag of badgers can really isolate you, and the one true thing I needed on my lowest of low days was to not feel so lonely.

I see you out there, Sista. Please hold on. It does get better.

Watch Out For Those Burnout Blisters