Coping with burnout

I suspect quite a lot of us have heard about Burnout, and in particular the rise of it amongst millennials and the ‘have it all generation’ in the last few years. It can be hard to differentiate burnout from other conditions, and it can affect everyone differently, but it typically plays out as a sustained loss of interest or passion in things, and a feeling of general malaise and ‘huh’ about life generally. It can typically hit when someone has been consistently ‘digging deep’ without much chance of stepping back, and resources have been found lacking.

With that in mind, you can see why carers might find themselves particularly prone to burnout, and dealing with effects of it can be particularly difficult. Caring for someone with a severe illness, and given the challenging and unpredictable nature of mental health conditions, means that there are many times when carers are ‘digging deep’, only to find they have to keep going and going, without an end in sight.

One specific challenge of this can be around emotional connection and empathy, something which most experts also agree can be seriously depleted during periods of burnout. So what if your caring role involves a good deal of patience, understanding and emotional empathy? 

This was something I definitely felt after our most recent crisis experience, and I found that without my acknowledgment, my feelings felt distant and like I couldn’t quite tap into my internal emotions the same way as before. It was a worry because as someone supporting a loved one with depression and anxiety, being able to listen and consider their feelings is incredibly important. Whether it was a mix of both burnout and a little bit of subconsciously trying to protect myself, it felt hard and scary to be so emotionally cold to a situation I knew I cared deeply about.

But the thing about burnout is that you cannot push through it. In fact, pushing through it is exactly the mindset that means so many people end up exhausted and flagging, letting all their previous efforts spiral out of control, because it never seemed like the right time to take a step back. 

For a while, I debated whether I could literally force myself to ‘feel’ things. I would sit awake at night and drag up the most painful experiences I could remember from the past four years, to see if there was any reaction. I cannot tell you why this seemed like a good idea, except to say that at the time, I was worried that it might never come back, and my ability to really help anyone ever again might be lost for good.

Jeez, dramatic much?

It turns out that what I really needed to do was understand how I’d got myself in this position, and what my brain might be doing now that was actually trying to help me. I read a lot of books (surprise) and sought out any and every piece of advice I could on burnout, and the key? Complete the cycle. That’s it gang. Let what needs to happen, happen.

Once I considered that approach, I realised how often I’d been stopping that from happening. How often, instead of processing the bad and painful stuff as it was happening, I’d boxed it up, and then when I’d hit my limit, decided to get it out again to beat myself with. Don’t tell me I don’t know how to have a good time.

Supporting someone, caring for them, and ultimately loving them, is a hard thing to do under any circumstances. We all know that to do any of those things well requires some effort, never mind if those people are unwell and sometimes incapable of returning the favour.

The scales can tip so easily, and instead you find yourself not just looking after someone else, but learning how to look after yourself twice as much, in lieu of that person and their care for you. Is there any wonder we all feel so done sometimes? 

I won’t be crass and say that in order to keep going, you have to switch off, but we do need to be better at understanding just what huge emotional work we are doing everyday that we put someone else needs before our own. Everyday that we go through something so painful that we don’t have the time or space to process. Every time that we accept there are no guarantees our efforts mean it will get any better. Every time we pick ourselves back up because we know right now, no-one else can.

Caring is, at the very heart, an act of hope and faith in our own ability to fix things. When things don’t go our way of course it grinds us down, but we need to accept that is part of the journey we’re on. 

Dealing with my own burnout meant facing up to my fragile relationship with hope, and the impact that was having when things went wrong. It meant separating out my efforts and commitment to the situation, and the outcome - especially important when those two things don’t align. It meant telling myself over and over again that I was doing as well as I could, even when things seemed even worse than the days and weeks before. It meant trusting my gut instinct that even if I couldn’t feel love, or sadness, that they were still there. It meant not being embarrassed to cry at the strangest times, and laugh and feel light in others.

Ultimately, managing my own burnout meant living alongside it and understanding the role it was playing in making me step back and put myself first sometimes.

Burnout as a carer seems unavoidable, but giving yourself permission to feel what you feel can make a huge difference. Whatever is going on for you, let it happen. It might not make sense to anyone else, even those going through the same situations as you, but all those feelings are real. Listen to them, give them time and space to resolve themselves, and know that you are doing the best you can, always.