Productivity vs burnout

I first tried my hand at writing when I was somewhere around eleven or twelve. Everybody says to write what you know (there are pros and cons to this, but we’ll get to that), and I knew I enjoyed riding horses so my story was about a girl who rode horses. I don’t remember what I called it. I don’t even remember what I called her. Creativity hindered me, even then.

I can’t recall her encountering any particular difficulties or memorable obstacles. Somehow, I still managed to write almost 80 pages in Microsoft Word. My parents were gently encouraging.

I have no idea whatever happened to the draft. It was undoubtedly saved to the computer’s local hard drive, because the cloud didn’t exist, and I do hope it ended up at the “nice farm in the country” where old electronics get sent upon their replacement.

***

On burnout:

For years, I rode horses competitively. This required an enormous amount of training and dedication. I missed enough school for competitions that today, I’d have to be in some particular academy intended for athletes or homeschooled altogether.

Every day after school and several weekends a month were dedicated to training. I also played the cello at a reasonably high level, though my horse was prioritized higher. Academics, cello, and national equestrian competitions — on top of regular teenage mayhem.

College was something of a lull, on the scheduling front. I still drove 3.5 hours home every single weekend to bartend. I never wanted to bartend in my college town, because if college students have an extra $3, they’re going to buy another 3 beers with it rather than tip. In my hometown, I could make enough money bartending, in cash, in one weekend, to pay my rent for the month.

For some inexplicable reason, I fought to graduate in the standard four years, even though it had already become much more common to do it in five. I have no idea why I was in such a rush to get to the abject misery of adulthood.

I have a bachelor’s degree in psychology, which necessitates a graduate degree in some specialized area to utilize. While I studied for entrance exams (primarily the GRE), I bartended for a wedding facility on weekend evenings and worked on a golf course every day they’d schedule me.

Graduate school kept those obligations but added three-hour evening classes and an unpaid internship. On Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, I was at my internship from 7am-3pm before driving to class, which I may have at 5pm, 8pm, or both. On Thursdays, I’d be at the golf course from 7am-3pm, but back at school for 5pm and/or 8pm classes. Fridays and Saturdays, I worked the golf course from 7am-4:30pm and drove to the wedding facility, where the event block of time would run from 5pm-12am, upon which we’d have to reset the facility for the next event. Sundays were back on the golf course by 7am.

Sunday evenings were ‘free,’ though I still had to complete masters classwork, reading, and writing papers.

Unsurprisingly, this got to me after a while. The whole thing blurs together. That two-year stretch of graduate school I don’t remember in any kind of detail — not what you want to hear after spending that sort of money on a graduate degree.

I graduated in the middle of the recession and struggled to find a job. After a certain amount of time, I knew I needed something on my resume that wasn’t hospitality/food service, and I took an entry-level office job to bridge the gap. I never left. Within a year, I was making more than I would have with my degree (a severe statement on how underpaid certain professions are, because it still wasn’t a lot).

My brain was so fried from the previous decade that my slowing down was almost too gradual to notice. I continued to overwork at my office job, determined to advance. I still worked at the golf course on weekends, and bartended the occasional wedding. Those commitments gradually tapered and I settled into the mundanity of office life.

Ten years later, covid hit, and the company I worked for sent us home earlier than most. We never went back and I continue to work from home. I adore it — but by that time, my brain chafed at what I gave it. I needed more but I didn’t know what, or how to get it.

My apathy during that time was depression, though I didn’t recognize it that way. I only knew I was deeply unhappy.

My anxiety has always manifested as impatience. It took me ages to identify that, too, but the wisdom of age chimed in. My anxiety kicks up not when I’m too busy, but when I’m too still. If I feel unproductive — spent my day killing time online, doom scrolling, watching hours of meaningless TV — I get snappish.

When I began to write, my husband didn’t fully understand my rabid enthusiasm. But one night, he said, “Something is finally challenging you.”

I hadn’t even put it together. That sounds incredible, but it’s true. Sometimes the people close to you really do know you better than you know yourself.