It’s that time of year again. We are all burnt out from life. Work, parenting, housework, the juggle, have taken their harrowing toll.
But these pressures are but the tip of our burnout iceberg. The true strain lies in the tiny traumas we suffer throughout the year, the micro stresses of the modern world. And these are why we are all so bloody tired.
We need to celebrate our own resilience in the face of such strain. Credit:Shutterstock
For example: Trying to retrieve words we’ve forgotten from the dark recesses of our brains. Simple words. Words like "decomposing" and "lethargic" and "frogmarch". They’re in there somewhere and it takes persistence and a lot of muttering to get them out.
And names! So many names to forget and remember. What was the name of that woman at the party? She had brown hair. We know her from somewhere. For god’s sake, who the hell IS she?
Working out why the internet isn’t working. Is it the computer? The wifi network? The NBN? Spending hours on the phone to the internet provider trying to sort the whole thing out.
Being connected to an actual live human after forty minutes on hold, only to be cut off when we are transferred to another department. Managing the relief, indignation and rage when the internet magically comes on again after the seventeenth attempt at resetting the connection.
Planning a get together with a group of friends. Everyone has responded to the WhatsApp message except for Mandy. Everyone can do Tuesday except for Janine. Everyone can do Monday except for Lisa. And what restaurant will we go to anyway? Does it do vegetarian? Dairy free? Gluten free? Is there parking?
Searching frantically for lost items that we had in our possession literally the second before. Our car keys. Our reading glasses. Our wallet. Our iPhone. The book we were reading. It was just there on the couch! The cat. Where’s the cat? Has anyone seen the cat?
Not being able to sleep, even though we’re crazy tired. Not being able to get back to sleep after we’ve inexplicably woken up at 3am.
Kerri Sackville suggests, wisely, that we celebrate what we are getting right at this madly tiring time of year.Credit:Luke Arms
Having an anxiety attack at 3am because being awake at 3am is, by definition, anxiety provoking. Trying to get up in the morning for work after being up having anxiety attacks at 3am the night before.
Having a wardrobe crisis when we’re already late for a party, because we seriously have nothing to wear. Flinging outfits on the bed and looking frantically through the wardrobe.
Trying to cover up that enormous zit on our chin with seven layers of concealer. Trying to fix our hair, which is a frizz ball, with only three minutes to get out the door. Trying to hide the bags under our eyes, because we were up at 3am. Googling "how to get rid of eye bags" with the uber waiting outside.
Trying to recall which of our 75,000 passwords opens which app/website/ account. Is it the name of our first-grade teacher, or the birthday of our eldest child, or the cryptic combination of capitals and numbers and the ampersand?
Being locked out of websites and resetting passwords. Discovering we can’t use the new password because we’ve used it before. WHAT?
Drawing on every shred of willpower in our being to be sensible and smart and not give in to temptation. Digging deep, so deep. Saying no to that third glass of wine.
Putting down the bag of chips. Resisting that expensive pair of shoes. Clicking out of the online checkout without buying that jumpsuit. Logging out of Facebook without arguing with that psycho moron who posted that thing. Logging out of Instagram without stalking our ex’s account.
Relapsing. Drinking the wine. Eating the whole bag of chips. Buying the shoes. Ordering the jumpsuit. Tearing that psycho moron down. Lingering over every single photo. Hating ourselves. Berating ourselves. Forgiving ourselves. Doing it all again.
We need to acknowledge the impact of these tiny traumas on our lives. We need to celebrate our own resilience in the face of such strain. And we need to continue bravely into 2019. Who knows what fresh hell awaits us next year?
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