Burnout – 15th October 2019

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I think this is burnout. I can’t really remember a head space that wasn’t totally fuzzy. I’ve got so much stuff going on: trying to juggle a full time job, starting my degree, running a blog and the supporting social media pages, launching my new website and merch store, finalising and publishing my book and juggling a lifestyle deemed appropriate and helpful for my PCOS. I’ve got social events coming out of my ears and absolutely no fucking money, free time or motivation. My house is either spotless or frighteningly messy (Kim and Aggie would have a mother-loving field day) and this appears to mirror itself in my appearance; I’m either dressed up to the nines, going out to drink copious amounts of gin and pretend I’ve got my life together or I can barely get out of bed, let alone brush my hair, and go about my daily activities in a zombie-style trance.


And for once, I really don’t want to whinge. I want to be positive Polly and pop up on your Instagram feeds reminding you to drink water, love yourself and have a great day. Except, right now, I want to fucking throttle Polly, whoever she is. And if I don’t address this, I won’t be able to deal with it and will likely feel fuzzed for the foreseeable future. It feels pretty GD rubbish to admit you think your life is falling apart a little bit, and you don’t know how to stop the seemingly downwards spiral, but there is no shame in it, and often reaching out is the first step to feeling much, much better. Plus, I like to be as honest as poss with you mega-babes to remind you that ‘real’ life is more than brunches with your besties, bikini selfies and book clubs. It’s gotta include the bad days, weeks and months, otherwise no-one will have any relatability and we’ll all keep hiding away our thoughts and feelings, inevitably causing more damage than intended.


Ironically, I couldn’t post this on #WorldMentalHealthDay. Partially because I was so wrapped up in some other trivial issue that social media content was the last of my bloody worries, and partially because I couldn’t fucking identify it and therefore didn’t have the words. I’m a stressy person on my best days, so assumed that this is just that but somewhat more intense. Believe it or not, it took a weekend away in my favourite place with some of my very favourite people to uncover what I reckon might actually be going on. Towards the end of last week, part of me was buzzing with anticipation and excitement but part of me was fucking drained, incredibly anxious and painfully stressed. I had just hit realisation that my book probably wasn’t as ready to publish as I had been thinking and telling people, and it was like the final nail in the coffin. Yet another thing I had to add to my ‘must complete immediately so I can move onto my next pile of stress and shit’ list. I had a little cry, and vowed to re-evaluate my diary, and cancel some upcoming occasions in favour of staying home with my laptop and a serious case of FOMO.


I really did have a lovely time this weekend. But in the back of my mind, I couldn’t shake this stupid feeling of worry. Like I shouldn’t be out, having a good time and catching up with my childhood besties because I’ve got so much work to do. Normally, escaping for a weekend and being by the beach especially tends to give me a new lease of life. It always inspires me and leaves me feeling fresh and motivated. But this time, I left exhausted and depressed.


I feel overwhelmed by everything. Often, I’m too tired to fall asleep. When I do fall asleep, it’s broken and I wake up at all hours thinking about stuff I need to remember and think about and plan. Just last week, I was up for 45 minutes at 3am because I was scared that I’d forget to take my probiotic before I went to the gym that following morning. I am anxious all the time. And, if I’m being really, truly and completely honest, I have felt like this for months. Pretty fucking ironic, huh? That I’m having ‘burnout’ in the midst of stuff I don’t even really want to be doing. Plus, it’s drained any and all passion out of anything I did. I haven’t even addressed this with my therapist, my friends or my boss yet because I feel embarrassed that I can’t handle these things when there are women out there doing the damn most, globetrotting, having babies, working all hours, managing companies and a home and still finding time for fuckin’ Pilates.


I honestly don’t really know where to go from here. I’m going to try and give myself as much of a break as I can, re-schedule and re-prioritise all the ever-loving shit that I’ve got to tackle in the coming weeks and months, and look after myself. I’ll need some help, so if anyone else out there is experiencing or has experienced the same, please let me know.


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