Last week, I did something that I felt lifted a big burden off of my chest. In “A Post Regarding My Anxiety,” I discussed the fabric of my recent mental breakdown. In the big picture, the whole thing was actually quaint. I didn’t pull out any hair nor did anyone in my direct vicinity know it was happening. In some ways, it symbolized what my biggest issue on Friday the 13th actually was. I didn’t know how to open up to people. I felt alone, misinterpreting the world until I became high on my own hubris. Did the people talking to me on Twitter actually like me, or was this all just going a motion?
In some respects, I have spent the days since then trying to come to terms with why I felt so anxious. I tried to find patterns that would keep me from falling back into that obsession. The truth is that it remains difficult because, on one level, I crave conversations right now. I need people to talk to because I want to feel less alone in the world. I began to observe close personal relationships and find ways to make them more useful in my life. Even then, there was no denying that amid this mild depression, I was also suffering something that is maybe even more horrifying: burnout.
To be clear, I am aware that my stages of this are mild. There is nothing about my behavior right now that is completely disabled. However, the quest to do everything in your power not to make it worse is where things become difficult. At the end of the day, you’re in your own control, and sometimes that is painful. When you’re an independent writer who makes their own schedule and has any hope of transgressing to the next stage, there are days when the hope just doesn’t want to be there for you. It’s then that you question yourself most. Given that I’ve been writing for over 25 years, it becomes more difficult because I know that I can’t quit writing. It feels too good.
But this isn’t repetitive motion like washing dishes or walking a dog. It’s coming up with creative ideas on all fronts. How can I possibly stay creative when my brain is constantly struggling to find interest in anything? I thankfully haven’t reached that point yet, though there have been days on The Memory Tourist that are closer to pulling teeth than having an idea pour out with brilliant structure. While I would never want to tell you which pieces, I do worry that the ones that I had the least passion for will be glaring errors and, in the typical irony, the one that gets noticed. It’s painful to work so hard on a project that is ignored and the one that gets popular is the one you slapped together. Try it out sometime. I’m telling you it mostly works.
I think a lot of my reason stems from last week’s post, where I am just not stimulated by a whole lot right now. I had to take a few days off watching movies because my mind was distracted. I had to power down in the evening with something more relaxed, such as reading a book.
A lot of it has to do with film as an art form. Anyone who has known me for any period of time will know how much I admire the medium. I purposely put effort into seeing as diverse of a selection every year, eager to find new greats in the making. However, I have gotten to the past few weeks and have felt like everything is pointless. I’m not going to a theater to see these. I might be distracted on my phone half the time. What value is reading early buzz for Mank (2020), Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (2020), or Promising Young Woman (2020) possibly going to do for me? I was not in THAT conversation. At best I wanted to see Ammonite (2020) – but that would require an hour drive both ways and the rise in COVID-19 cases makes it less appealing.
My form of escapism was disappearing. The ritual that I had used to see cheap matinees on Tuesdays hasn’t been active since February. I long to be in the room with a stranger, wondering why they laugh at certain lines. I want to feel the vibrancy of the sound consuming me. When I’m at home, the worst that happens is restarting my router. There’s no pageantry to any of this. It all blurs together, just becoming another movie. I could be watching a masterpiece and lose sight of that because sometimes it feels like I’m the only one who cares.
I suppose that it’s burnout in the loosest use of the word. I still watch some movies in the evening, but I’m not entirely there. I’ve begun looking through the TV shows I’m backed up on and have given up on 90% of them. I think to myself that I’ll return to them, but I just have no enthusiasm. I’m still unsure if I liked the Animaniacs reboot or not because it was funny, but I definitely was not amused by the first episode.
I’m trying to work through it, but it’s difficult. Somedays writing is more obligation than passion. I look at what’s new in Film Twitter and again I don’t care all that much. I love the people in it, but the upcoming releases lack any appeal for me. It all feels so intangible and I try to understand the enthusiasm everyone else feels. I think Wonder Woman 1984 (2020) looks decent, but it feels like I’ll just watch it when it comes out.
Which makes it interesting to note what I’ve tried to combat this lack of sensation. I’ve tried using more music to stimulate the brain. I’ve been reading countless articles from scholars and random websites detailing whatever symptoms I have at the given moment. To be fair, I’m not an expert and I did skim a lot of them. However, I have usually found catharsis in studying this because I begin to realize that I’m not alone in my occasional numbness. The fact that a lot of them have been written in the past 10 months is astounding.
I can’t fully explain why studying information has helped me cope so well over my life, but it has. I’ve gotten out of spirals simply by reading about depression and self-harm. Something about context has helped me to look at my own reaction and find ways to not give in. It’s maybe why the only literature I’ve been attracted to recently have been dark narratives like Alice Sebold’s “Lucky” or Tom Perrotta’s “The Leftovers.” It’s not that I’m experiencing a dread that would lead me to worse fates. It’s just that somewhere inside those stories is a sense of hope to carry on, overcoming our limitations, and hopefully become better people.
Which makes it ironic that one of the biggest problems for me assessing my own pain has been to place it into a bigger hierarchy. Let’s put it this way. Am I a nurse trying to cure patients of COVID-19 and watching hundreds die? No. Am I dying of COVID-19 or any other tragic ailment or injury? No. To project on other subliminal insecurities I came across this past week: I am not suffering from drug or alcohol addiction, I’ve never taken prescription mood medication, I have never been assaulted, I don’t think I am that emotionally unstable, I am neither on the verge of dying or concerned about my child’s well-being. I have none of that.
So, why do I have any right to feel so terrible? Again, placing my pain into a richer context has alleviated some of the stress because I notice we’re all hurting. It’s just that when the collection plate gets passed around for thoughts and prayers, suggesting that I’m sad because I feel like nobody is listening to me is a bit thin as a concept. If anything, it makes my occasional dive into empathy all the more difficult because I do read those stories. I see people who are living their lives fairly well in spite of everything, and I find it inspiring.
Though it returns to the idea of if I’m becoming too invested in their lives. Amid nights where I have trouble getting to sleep or I haven’t been eating right, I get caught up in Twitter once again, finding this fascinating world of people I barely know. As much as it’s fodder to pass time, I think on some level it’s given me a strange creative exercise by wondering what it is like to live with certain needs. I’m aware it’s screwed up, but I wonder how my life would change if I had one or two things that would give me distinctive experiences. I wonder, am I boring because I avoided so many bad calls? I fear sometimes that I have nothing to say because my empathy can’t reach that bar. There has to be a reason that I’m so curious to reread Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” even though I just finished it a few months ago.
This isn’t to say that I am one of those proverbial “doom scrollers” that have become popular. If anything, I use Twitter as a source of optimism, looking for conversations to pass the time. On those bad days, it’s what keeps me motivated. Even then, the psychology is complicated because, as I’ve spoken before, it’s an easy slide into distorting reality. I’ve done better about it this week, even if a picture from 10 (10!) years ago popped up on Facebook and sent a bittersweet kind of nostalgia inside of me. I wonder where the people in those pictures are and if I could even *accidentally* say hello to them.
I understand that this is all a bit messy and scattershot. I want to make it clear that for the most part, I am doing okay. I still have reason to get out of bed in the morning and I try to engage with every day. It’s just that this has been a difficult period in part because so much has changed. Also because Thanksgiving on a personal scale has been hectic and full of butting egos. Trying to feel like you matter in that algorithm is a pain. Trying to reach out and be vulnerable is also hard. Frankly, I wonder if I’m being too personal here.
On the one hand, I’m sure that these conjoined posts feel like I’m just making up excuses. One week it’s anxiety, the next I’m burned out. Why can’t you settle on a symptom? In some respects, I think that I've yet to land on a catchall answer. If anything, trying to find that term has been amusing, as I’ve discovered everything from sad horny (self-explanatory, but one of the gag answers was “listens to a lot of Lana Del Rey,” which is true) to demisexuals (a person who only gains sexual attraction after forming a deeper emotional connection). I won’t say if those apply to me, but given that somehow my vague terms of absence has lead me to a fair share of relationship advice pages, it’s been a confusing journey.
For now, I am burned out, but not in a way that is debilitating. So long as I have deadlines, I can find myself pushing through this. While I recognize that I can’t run away from this forever, it’s at least keeping some of the pain away. I have recent work that I’m proud of, friends online who have made my afternoons much more memorable, and a family that clearly loves me. It’s important to remember in all of this that I am loved and that I do matter, even if I struggle to understand that sometimes. Again, this is more of a mild experience and one that I’m sure will pass, but I’m hoping that I’m fine. I’ll be a lot better when this is all over and I can get better ideas from something besides long walks.
Though, if you want to help, please feel free to reach out and tell me how you feel, maybe strike up a conversation with me. I can only hope it makes both of our days better.
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