As you are
Reader,
It has been a difficult month and so I'd taken some time off from the column. Being able to do so surprised me — I wrote to the editors and said I was having trouble managing both my work schedule and the clarity of my thoughts, they replied immediately and said, of course, they understood. I was so relieved at their answer, I slept for ten hours. This is rare. I’m used to disregarding my own wellness in order to meet deadlines, I’ve often chalked this up to having a good work ethic. But it’s not. It’s a recipe for burnout.
I’ve hit burnout several times in my life, the latest being in mid-March. I remember, one afternoon, running into a friend, who did the American thing of reflexively asking how I was. I did the Singaporean thing of taking his question seriously, I said, I’m so tired I could cry.
In my experience, responding earnestly to the American How Are You has elicited several standard reactions, of fear, awkwardness, or confusion, yet I persist in answering the question I’ve been asked, I don’t know why. Surely it’s easier to just say Fine, Good, and move on. But I’m stubborn. I think people shouldn’t say things they don’t mean. For me, words are already a poor approximation of our feelings. I think it’s better that we’re straightforward since any attempt at honesty already includes layers of untruths. Why make things more difficult by deliberately lying, by saying we’re fine. Fine, what is fine. Of course, it could be argued that I then make things more difficult for myself by complicating what should be a simple interaction, but at least it’s a complication of my choosing, in any case, sometimes it pays off, and this was one of those times.
My friend put his book away and asked what I was dealing with.
I listed the deadlines I had, the feeling of physical discomfort which mixed with stress and premonitioned an impending illness, the sense of inadequacy of not being able to remain on top of things. He nodded, and said, are you able to take some time off to rest this weekend?
No, I replied.
I appreciated that he didn’t try to offer me useless solutions. He knew that if there was a solution, I’d have alighted upon it already. He just sat there with me, then after a while, took his book back out and resumed reading. I opened my computer and fiddled with a character’s dialogue, making her wants explicit, then covering it up with words that mimic the misdirection we often resort to when afraid of being seen clearly, of being made vulnerable by desire. After a while, my friend finished his chapter, said goodbye, and left. I’ve liked him more ever since that interaction. Whenever I see him, I’m reminded of the care that sincere interactions can transmit.
I crashed very hard in late March / early April, soon after that conversation. Even in the throes of burnout, I was quite functional. Like I said, I’m used to forging ahead regardless. I drank more coffee, I slept very little, I let my previous onscreen personality take over during social situations and hit all my deadlines, more or less, while the inside of my head was one long sustained scream. If I got too overwhelmed, I would set aside some time to cry, which always makes me feel better, and then I’d return to my desk. I suffered from panic, from distraction, then I gathered my attentions and entered long periods of hyperfocus which caused me to grind my teeth. I gave myself TMJ, I held a pack of ice to my swollen jaw, and continued writing. A long period passed in which I did not read for leisure. I understood that I was burning out, that I had burnt out.
Yet I wasn’t unhappy. Although I’m often sad, it’s hard for me to be truly unhappy when I’m doing exactly what I want with my life. I spend all day reading, writing, and talking story with other writers, nothing makes me happier. Being exhausted is temporary, but being fulfilled is an enduring state. How can I complain? I’ve never been more content.
At the end of April, I retrieved the same story I’d been working on the day I ran into my friend. It’s about a woman reflecting on a period in girlhood she still cannot bring herself to be honest about. It’s hard to write a story when the character’s desires aren’t articulated even to themselves, out of shame, guilt, etcetera. I was letting it rest after a period of editing, hoping the distance would bring clarity.
It did.
I have made a fuss, often, about fiction and autobiography. And it’s true, I rarely share the same circumstances as my characters, they lead far more interesting, exciting lives than I. But ah, my character and I shared the same problem. What I couldn’t admit to myself was that the delight I felt at having been afforded a life of writing blanketed my burnout with guilt. How hard it’d been to forge a writing life, how ungrateful I’d be to now say: I’m tired, let me be. It’s a simpler problem than what my character faces, but the kernel is the same. We both wanted things we refused to admit. Me: rest. Her: moral absolution. One was easier achieved than the other, the way forward was clear.
What happens when you’re straightforward with yourself, when you aren’t afraid to ask for what you want, what you need? What happens when you reach out and say, these are my limits, I’m struggling, please understand?
I’m reminded again of the care that intentful conversation can elicit, of the peace that comes with laying your cards on the table, neither over nor underpromising, but simply letting yourself be seen as you are.
Of course, my editor said. We understand. Take all the time you need.
