Human IV Line: Burnout
“It is time to not only withstand the wind but to become it. ”
I Am A Human IV Line
Traffic Woes
In the village where I grew up, there is a bridge that everyone hates. It is a small, winding bridge that is technically wide enough for two cars. Honestly, I hold my breath when I slide past another vehicle on the tiny sliver of road, as if having a smaller waist will suck in the metal sides of my Skoda Octavia like the Knight Bus in Harry Potter. Whenever I worry about the bridge’s width, the fact that it is wide enough for two cars remains. Some days I find that truth more comforting than others. The bridge is not wide enough for the local quarry trucks, tractors and vehicles. More often than not, if you meet a quarry truck driver, they will stare you down until you reverse back around the bridge and make yourself as small as possible for them to get by.
Recently, I have noticed a marked shift in my personhood. That sounds a little dramatic. Personhood. I am sure I could think of a more accessible word to encapsulate what I mean, but personhood feels right. Who I am is fundamentally shifting. I am less quiet, less afraid of the world, and as a result, less willing to endure suffering through some warped sense of duty.
This personality change began several weeks ago, but I first saw the external consequences of this change a weekend or two ago. I was driving over that much-dreaded bridge in my village when I met a quarry truck. We were probably both halfway over the bridge. I did not panic. Nor did I automatically switch gears into reverse and make space. It didn’t even occur to me to do so. Instead, I stared at the quarry driver. I felt no need to comply, to move or look away. The truck driver reversed, and I went on my way. It was the silence in my mind that struck me. My palms did not grow sweaty. My heart did not pound relentlessly against my sternum. The absence of panic left space in my mind for me to think clearly and realise that I am changing at my core.
Similarly, several days later, I was driving back from Kerry to Dublin. It was a glorious afternoon with a warmth that made April a suspicious month to the Irish. Ahead of me on the road was a sleek, black BMW. It was a convertible, and the couple in the car rested their arms on the doors, basking in the sun. The woman wore a headscarf as my Nan wore in old photographs and oversized sunglasses. They were laughing. At this sight, I was suddenly struck by the vague memory of a long-lost dream. There was nothing I wanted more than a red convertible when I was a child. Although a Beetle was also acceptable, a Cadillac was my aim since Paige in Charmed had a bright green one. This gave my parents another reason to joke that I was someone who expected to be born into royalty rather than my ordinary Kerry life. When I was ten years old, I made a vision board and cut out photos from the Argos catalogue of what I would love to see in a house of my someday. In the driveway of my fictitious house, I included two cars; a safe, sturdy people carrier (ideal for children) and, of course, my glossy red convertible.
Until I saw that couple driving their convertible ahead of me, I did not realise how long it was since I had remembered what once mattered to me. I held onto that dream of a convertible (a metaphor for larger, more general material wealth) until my late teens. After that, its importance seemed to fade. I do not think it is terrible that my interests have shifted. If anything, my fading interest in material wealth is indicative of a time when I was exceptionally sick and was reborn with a strong spiritual faith. Still, seeing that convertible felt like a message from the past. A wave from my childhood self. Perhaps a reminder of how far I have come and precisely where I have come from. Who knows, really, one day, I might drive a convertible. Although right now, that seems like a recipe for disaster for my near-constant spring and summer hay fever.
The Restorer
All of this to say - I am changing. I have to change. And here’s why:
Sometimes I do not feel entirely human. Sometimes I do not think even vaguely human. I recently spoke to a friend in a bad mental space and identified much more readily with an IV line. I am the fluid. The restorer. The helper. The saviour. I don’t need to look up the archetypes of personalities in whatever new psychology book for me to know what it will say. I am a giver. Yet lately, I have been feeling far from gracious about it. Quite far.
I am twenty-seven years old, and I feel bled dry by humanity and the humans in my life. Yes, they are two distinctly different groups. The empathy of the world and its never-ending vat of pain constantly bubbling and turning on itself has stripped me of any sense of self I managed to scrape together in my adolescence. The humans in my life, however, they have done nothing intentionally to impact my stress. This is a mere byproduct of who I am. Combined with the mental health of my close friends, the physical health of my family and the overall lack of spiritual balance in those around me, I feel as though I am standing on constantly shifting sand. I know, I know. I sound cynical. And God-freaking-help-me, I am. But I’m also a dreamer. I’m a spiritualist. I laugh a lot and love it even more. Mostly, I create. I spend my days inside the minds of romantic poets. I listen to Taylor Swift’s more poignant tunes. I often wish I could wade into the water of the Lake Distract in a gauzy gown like every Keira Knightly movie ever (but primarily with the aesthetic of Pride and Prejudice, 2005 version only). In that world, my biggest problem might be catching a chill and having to spend several days under the dutiful care of my soon-to-be very wealthy lover. I feel as though I have caught the chill without the joy of the gauzy gown.
So, here’s the deal. I have spent the entirety of my adulthood thus far chronically ill. Alongside these illnesses, I have also spent my life as a perfectionist. I did well in school; I regularly cleaned out my pencil case and never missed an exam. But mostly, I’m a perfectionist with people. I considered myself a people pleaser because this was easier to explain. It also sounded better than the truth. When my mom would look at me quizzically as I explained my exhaustion to her, I would say it was something I was working on in therapy. The truth is, I don’t aim to please. I strive to perfect. I watch others flounder, and I enter like Bob the Builder but without that incessant smile, not once checking if that person wanted help. That friend I mentioned at the beginning, she’s been my best friend since she had braces and I had no discernible eyebrows. She’s struggling, so I have aimed to help and give what help I have. This situation with my friend is not unique - I give to everyone, whether they ask or not - which is my fault, not theirs. I mould and pour myself into their cups, filling their tanks and depleting my own with little control.
Are you beginning to see the problem? I hone people. I meld the clay of their flaws into a vision I can genuinely see for them. For a long time, I have shrugged and supposed that most people don’t have the confidence or the sense to do what needs to be done. I don’t blame them now. Sure, I am angry. But only at myself. I have given every ounce of blood I have to the well-being of others but never once balanced the books to see what would be leftover for me. I did not critically examine why I consistently contract head colds, flues, illness, and burnout. That’s the luck of the draw, Mom would say.
It turns out, no, it is not. I have poured over texts regarding neuroscience, neuroplasticity, and psychoneuroimmunology in recent weeks. Combined with my spiritual knowledge, I have concluded: that I am a big idiot. I have allowed my beliefs to become ingrained attitudes, transforming into my reality – my personality. A personality based entirely upon two themes; 1) struggle and 2) the victorious overcoming of said struggle. My personality created my emotions (exhaustion, anger, resentment) which issued a marching order to my neurons in the form of an electrochemical telegram that commanded my physical cells to mirror my emotions. An exhausted, angry, and resentful workforce of cells is useless against the bad boy pathogens out in the world.
Get It Done
Thankfully, I have one thing going for me. I am a doer. I get shit done. So, it’s time to change, and if I’ve got my neuroscience right, I need to reverse and rewrite the formula for electrochemical signalling in the body. Theoretically easy, but habitually a considerable challenge.
Here’s the breakdown from one novice neuroscientist/recovering people-honer:
Beliefs = Attitudes = Personal Reality = Everyday Emotions = electrochemical telegram = the body’s physical manifestations of one’s beliefs.
If we start with beliefs, one could be tricked into thinking that all one must do to change their actual physiological outcomes in life is simply think new thoughts. Technically, yes, this is true. But where do beliefs come from? Our memories. Here’s where things start getting spicy and spiritual all at once: If our beliefs about the world and ourselves are built on our memories, then we are choosing our futures based on the knowledge of our past. This condemns us to relive the past because we never step beyond the known reality that we have experienced. If all we have experienced is pain with the odd splattering of love, then it is no wonder we grow to expect disappointment.
The news gets worse, friends. It’s got to before it gets better. No matter how poorly my mind has been doing, I have always been glad that I live in the time I do. Hearing my parents describe the eighties sounds a lot less like roller discos and drainpipe jeans and more like seeing the Pope in Knock and suppressing all kinds of outward expressions of joy that might make you appear deviant. Well, we’ve got all their memories too. And our grandparents. Our cells are altered by their trauma, which they rationalised with the beliefs they held at the time. Sometimes I think I drew the short end of the stick when it came to genetics, but then I realised just how much potential for sadness inside me. I cannot even begin to imagine all the genetic depression, anxiety, mania and psychosis that have led to my conception. All up-regulated ancestor’s genes in the name of survival.
It’s time for the silver lining. Take a deep breath, and get a glass of water. We’re nearly there. In every generation that experienced immense pain, there was still just as much potential for joy. For greatness. And they tapped into it, after all, didn’t they? When I see my grandmother’s smile on VHS tapes of my parent’s wedding day, I know she must have known how to laugh. My grandfather liked to curse and scream and shout, but he was also tingling with sharp vital energy that held a wicked intelligence. They had it in them, too. The joy. The freedom. The difference is that they tapped into this neurological and spiritual potential sporadically, whereas I want it in every minute of every day. Because of them, I believe myself capable of such a venture.
This change feels like a surrender of sorts. I’m about to embark on a journey to unlearn the habit of being my past self. My beliefs need an overhaul, and my life will change. After all, it’s just fundamental neuroscience and a dash of quantum physics. Change is the inevitable result of such a venture. It is my job to steer the outcome of said change. It is said that when everything changes, one should change everything. In the past few years, physiologically, very little has changed. My stagnant, subpar health wobbles with each brisk wind of upset that comes in the form of death in the family, increased responsibilities at work or the slightest change in my appearance.
It is time to not only withstand the wind but to become it.
Write soon,
Jens x