What do you do when it all becomes too much?
I am honoured to share a story from one of my followers. She stepped up right away thanking me for creating a platform to share and offered her own. I am so impressed that even in her darkest time of year, in all the overwhelm, she still took the time to get her thoughts onto the page and share. In hopes of encouraging others to reach out. To know you are not alone.
January 2021
Time for a little self-reflection. It’s January and I have been feeling tired.
Very tired.
And weak, too. Not much in the way of motivation. For anything, really.
Thank goodness for anchored routines. Without the routines that I have established, I wouldn’t get the fuck out of bed. But I do have those routines.
Now the problem is that I don’t have anything left over for some pretty basic stuff. Like, the kids’ homework. They don’t feel like it, I don’t feel like it. So, I don’t push them. And my son needs one on one, he needs the guidance and support I can usually give him. He also needs to be more independent, but let’s not go there now. Because that takes energy. Just thinking about how we’re going to move towards that autonomy makes me even more tired.
I cringe when I think of the arguments and the tantrums.
Ah. Now, don’t get me wrong. My daughter also needs the support. In fact, when she doesn’t get exactly the same amount of time and attention as her brother, she cries. This emotional dependence (and emotional blackmail, if we’re being honest) is an energy sucker, too.
And now let’s talk about the mental load, the proportion of the housework that gets done by me, the responsibility that is mine to bear.
*Sigh*. *Loud, audible sigh*. I’m tired.
I went through a bit of this last year, at the start of 2020. It was like slow torture. Actually, it was more like the frog who gets boiled in hot water. You know the one, where the frog gets in a bath of warm, comfortable water only to be slowly boiled to death not realizing the temperature is rising to dangerous levels. That was last year.
I thought that I was ok.
I thought that I could handle everything coming my way, on my own, I might add. Without asking for help. I thought that what I was feeling, the exhaustion, the stress and the sadness, were all just temporary and well on their way to be “taken care of”.
How? How the hell did I think that these things, these feelings, were just going away? How did I think that I could handle what I was going through on my own? I wouldn’t expect anybody else to make it on their own without asking for help. I would never expect my best friend to go down that road all alone. I would give her shit for not asking for help.
No one can go it alone, especially when things are tough, seriously tough. And when I say tough, I mean, losing my father kind of tough. Being the sole executor of his will kind of tough. Only taking the requisite five days off, flying to and from Montréal, making endless calls, planning a funeral, running a school and a family all at the same time kind of tough.
And sure, I’ve been through worse. Yes, worse. But it was time to ask for help. And it’s time now to ask for help. And all it really takes is a text to a friend, someone who is willing to listen while I cry, or rant, whichever comes first. I know that in my better moments, I can be the one to offer that to a friend.
So, why not, I say.
Why not reach out before it becomes bigger than me, before I need greater intervention. All I need to remember is what I would say to a friend in need… and say it to myself.
