Who Needs a Therapist When (Pt. 16)

In many carer industries, they use the term "Compassion Fatigue." This generally refers to the trauma, exhaustion, and stress that results from overextending yourself in the care of others. It's a common issue in the fields of counseling and hospice, as people lose themselves in the fight to ease the suffering of others.

I think I have Compassion Fatigue from myself.

Obviously, this is probably called something else, but it feels the same. It is just sheer exhaustion and frustration from just trying to make space for my mental and physical illnesses. I'm sick of planning around my expected panic attacks, of keeping careful of alcohol and late nights because I know it will make the next day unbearable, and not just from a hangover perspective. I'm sick of saving up my sick days when I have a cold because I know I will need them later. I'm sick of turning down opportunities and shying away from certain career choices because I don't know if I can handle it. I'm sick of being careful and thoughtful and overly planned, because there is just no bounce back. I'm sick of tiptoeing around my own brain, because I never know what will make it decide to collapse entirely.

Maybe it is because I can remember a time when that wasn't me. When I ran up a set of stairs because I wanted to. When I drove with my coworkers to social events immediately after work. When I felt confident enough to move to Australia on a whim. When I signed up for classes and agreed to projects and let myself do things just because they seemed like a fun idea.

Maybe this is part of getting older. After all, conservative ideology increases with age, and risk aversion follows it. Maybe, with the number of stupid, awful things that have happened, it is just natural that I become more cautious and careful. When I tell my partner that it feels impossible to shake the sense of dread and despondency—because it is centered in experience, in being bitten on the ass too many times—they always insist on reminding me that it is past experience. That, like any stupid probability problem, the future always holds the same chances, even if the past landed all snake-eyes. But that doesn't mean that all the coordination and planning can simply be set aside. Because even if everything goes well, I'm heading in with a brain that is riddled with landmines, waiting to be triggered.

And, I'm tired of it. I don't just want a break from my brain. I want a break from being careful with my brain.

So, what do you do, when you need a break from your patient—but that patient is you? I can't exactly set boundaries with my brain, and I'm sick of being punished for getting a little fast and loose with myself.

My partner struggles with the way the stresses of normal adult life have stripped him of some of the qualities that make him feel like himself. Maybe qualities not usually thought of as those of a responsible adult, but qualities that have always been central to his identity: Staying up too late, playing video games, solving puzzles, going out with friends. The stresses of his work, and the limits on his time, mean that all too often he finds himself instead making the responsible choice, and he resents it. Nearly every day becomes a quiet battle between his desire to be himself as he envisions himself, and the awful realities of living in Western Capitalism.

Maybe that's all this is. The usual capitalism groans, only I'm fighting my brain as much as my job. It makes the job feel much worse, and it makes everything else slowly bleach of all joy.

I just... miss the old me. I don't think she's coming back. But I wish I could have a couple of days—even a couple days of the year—where I knew I wouldn't be sad. Where I knew my brain wasn't going to wreck me. Where I knew I could talk to whoever I wanted and still not have a panic attack, or dissociate, or anything else.

The puzzle that is my brain is getting very old and very irritating. I'm sick of it.

Last Week's (Pt. 15)

Part One