Burnout

Lately, though a combination of a complicated home life, not having real time off for two and a half years, taking on a good (but time-consuming) writing project, dealing with what the rest of the world and country are dealing with, and perhaps getting inadvertently “triggered” by an ongoing situation, not to mention the death of Lorca – and the positive, yet stressful introduction of another galgo, Miguel, just last week . . . where was I? Oh, yes. A relative’s terminal illness, the ongoing housing of that relative, a stressful, emotionally draining job during a global pandemic, spending way too much time writing a book about how to process grief, a dead dog, a new dog, no time off, no fun time, the deletion of real family time . . . I am burned out.

I read about reincarnation and near-death experiences. I wonder about the expansiveness of consciousness and the interconnected nature of all things. I get caught up in Buster Keaton movies, drawn to that expressive face and the quietness of silence, a piano soundtrack to keep time with whatever is going on in my soul, the ghost in my machine. Body is mind, but mind is not body. My body attempts not to give up the ghost.

This is what I’ve been thinking lately (lately being this week) – what if I left my work behind? Stayed at home, tapped out my thoughts, attended to dogs and the home? The boy, big now and boisterous, doesn’t need me in the same way, and that’s ok. He’ll be gone soon, perhaps for good. But there is plenty to occupy me here, and without the noise of other peoples’ thoughts, the words could flow again

So, what does the rest of this life look like for this imprisoned ghost? How should I shape what remains of my career attending to the emotional needs of others? Am I in service or am I in connection? Yesterday, worn from everything, I decided to take a day off. Walks with my husband and the pups, a little Pilates, a lot of Buster Keaton, and very little work.  And here I am, writing. Thank goodness.

Intentions

The last several months have been difficult. On the good side, I’m almost done writing that book (details to be shared at a later date). Also on the good-in-a-bad-situation side, my sick relative has been through radiation and ongoing chemo, which, along with an earlier surgery, have been effective to date. To spread that good side stuff out a little further, it is also fortunate that we have the room for him to live with us, and that my husband has the capacity to do things like drive him to appointments. The boy is doing well in school, though I worry about the effects of the pandemic on his social development. And let’s not forget the fact that me, my husband, and the boy are all fully vaccinated and boosted and have remained healthy through the pandemic.

Having a semi-permanent houseguest for the last five months, however, has not been the greatest, for us and for the houseguest, though no one speaks about any of this directly. It’s unclear how long this situation will last. The sudden, acute illness and subsequent death of our galgo, Lorca, the week of Thanksgiving continues to be painful. Covid keeps coviding, with omicron leading us to cancel my mother’s holiday visit this year at the last minute. Every “vacation” I take involves some other form of work, and I’m burned out. And then there is the topic of my book, grief. I am sick to death of grief and living it, anticipating it, and writing about it.

So this morning, sitting on a couch in front of a Christmas tree we will dismantle today or tomorrow, our remaining dog curled by my side, I offer my intentions for 2022.

• Keep work contained to the office

• Take 4 weeks off, with coverage for clients and no other work scheduled

• Write more – for publication and for myself

• Cultivate and prioritize connection

• Be honest and firm

• Recognize and maintain boundaries

• Acknowledge reality

• Be kinder to myself, family, and friends

• Note my faults and foibles and accept them, while also continuing to grow and overcome

It’s hard to see the year ahead as full of happy possibilities. I have control over only so much. These intentions feel doable, though I may need to remind myself of them on occasion. So, um, happy new year.

Unedited

Last week. Family vacation, not too far away. Far-flung relative flew into town, rented car. Boy brought friend along for part of time. Sunday, August 8. End of family vacation. Relative has partial seizure 20 minutes before we were to leave.

Husband and relative off to local hospital. Relative stays there, husband ferries dogs, boy, and some stuff back home. I wait at vacation rental for tow truck to pick up brother’s rental car. Six hours later, have to leave with husband, who by end of day has driven the equivalent of one way to Los Angeles from Bay Area. Relative taken to SF hospital via ambulance. Brain tumor.

Brain tumor removed on Monday. Relative released yesterday (doing pretty well, considering — helps that tumor was close to skull). Waiting to hear what kind of glioma he has. Glioblastoma, thing that killed my dad, John McCain, Ted Kennedy, and Beau Biden (among others), statistically most likely. Still might be something less aggressive.

Relative staying with us indefinitely. Diagnosis, prognosis unclear. Lots of work, but hard to focus. Clients in dire straits. Many people needing therapy. Husband’s job also jam-packed with work and responsibilities. Boy starting challenging in-person school year. Potential book on the horizon (or not—hard to tell).

Back to it.

Out of and into the blue

A few weeks ago, in my professional context, I was contacted by a publishing company for a “paid writing opportunity.” The contact was random, the email imprecise, though a little digging indicated they were likely approaching me for a self-help style book. When I talked to the acquisitions editor, it was clear that the person did not know my psychotherapy specialties and likely had not looked at my website or professional blog, though someone from the company had done some sleuthing to find me in the first place. I rejected a few topics that were out of my scope of competence, finally choosing something of relative interest from an extensive list. One signed nondisclosure agreement later, I approved a very detailed outline. I just about had the writing sample in the bag when I heard back from the acquisitions editor. Someone had beaten me to the completed sample and had been chosen to write the book. They would contact me (perhaps) in the future for another topic.

This was a disappointment. It was also a relief, given the time to complete the ~200 page book was sixty days from the signing of the contract, two months that would overlap with the boy’s summer vacation and free time in perhaps one of the last summers he’ll be just hanging out. Even the process of completing the writing sample got in the way of family time, coming with my mother’s first visit in a year and a half. The topic didn’t set me on fire and the publishing company churns out material, so this offer was mixed. High art, or even low art, it was not. And I would have to enlist the support of my professional and personal community to generate some sort of buzz.

However, it would have been the first time I have really been paid for writing. It would have given me the experience of writing a book and the impetus to do so. Based on what I did for the writing sample, I have the capacity to write such a book. However, I have no idea what people are interested in reading and lack the confidence and internal motivation to complete a large-scale project. Meanwhile, I’m left with a fairly specific sample that includes multiple sections. Perhaps I can adapt it for my professional blog, but I’m not interested enough at this point to do the crafting. I’d much rather write about anxiety and it ties to our families or something that feels personal and universal all at once.

Anyway. I write it out here because I can’t share it elsewhere. And maybe they will be in touch again and I’ll get the contract and have something out there published under my name, circulating in the world. But the experience was so random and over so quickly that I wonder if it will be repeated—and whether there are other ways to incorporate serious writing into my life. After all, they found me after I revamped my professional blog. What would it be like to really focus on writing what I am interested in and finding an audience that way?

Waiting room

The scene, a large living room in a medium-sized city in the San Francisco Bay Area. One child, newly 15, occupies a long sofa. To his right, a sleeping greyhound. On the midcentury modern coffee table, a sleek and simple bit of teak, he works out problems in preparation for a math placement test. Across from him, sitting in a chair bought at a Manhattan flea market twenty years ago, a man in his mid-50s scrolls down his iPhone, a pile of math printouts for review on his lap. To his right, a greyhound melts from his dog bed onto the floor. Then there's me, female, still 50, occupying another piece of teak modernity, the armrests polished and round, pale kitty curled to my right.

The boy went fishing with a friend this morning (masks on!). My husband and I went for a walk that turned into a 4.5 mile hike. We are toned and lightly tanned. Four plus months in to this pandemic, I am in the best physical shape I’ve been for years, thanks to lots of walks, hikes, and Bodyfit by Amy workouts. There will be no in-person school for who knows how long. My husband will be working from home for a similar amount of time. And I have started to see select clients in person with lots of precautions, though I am pretty much giving away my services to 80% of my clients online or in person. There is so much need and many of the folks in need do not have sufficient (or any) income to pay psychotherapy fees out of pocket (and insurance coverage is another thing altogether). Once I hear their stories, I can’t justify charging full fee. This feels good on one level and suboptimal on another.

We are a privileged group. Our income is stable and covers our expenses. We have access to many things, including technology, healthy food, physical space, health insurance and lots of time. Still, I worry about the effects of this isolation on the boy. I am sad and scared for the world and for people that don’t have our privileges. I worry about the earth. I do what I can in my small form of redistribution. But who knows what life will be like four, six, twelve months from now?