It happened again, I burnt myself out.
I knew it was coming. I could feel it slithering up the back of my throat. It’s not acid reflux; it’s the consequences of my own decisions. It’s burnout.
Burnout is a chronic condition I can’t seem to budge. It’s defined as the state of emotional, physical, and mental exhaustion caused by excessive and prolonged stress. To me, it’s crying when my WOF expired, it’s the constant suffocating feeling that whatever I am doing is fundamentally crap, my creativity is so blocked up you’d need to shove a plunger down my throat at gagging-point to extract a glimmer of hope. Everything is fucked, and I can’t precisely identify the bleeding point.
I wonder if you burnout like me, maybe you need this more than I do.
In my relentless pursuit for supreme social and occupational hierarchy, I have found myself somewhere down the gurgler. I work harder to be better, to impress everyone I know, everyone I care about. But, at what point will I have worked hard enough that I’m content with my own being. It’s this insidious cycle where someone I value sets a benchmark for me, and I’ll break bones to achieve it, I’ll lose myself so I can find what they’re wanting. But once I’m there, once I’ve done what needs to be done, I need to do something else; so I can show-off, to impress someone else, to make someone think better of me. I’m only full if you love me. I’m only content if I am forever dazzling – I’m like a sad, 24/7 circus, permanently open for your consideration and acknowledgement. The problem is, for me, the only person I can’t seem to gain the approval of is myself.
I work harder to be better because that’s all I know. I need to do better. If I do better I’ll have more money, I’ll have more friends, I’ll have more respect, a big fuck-off house in Herne Bay, I’ll have a Gucci bag and cardholder to match – I’ll be able to light a Jo Malone London Lime Basil Mandarin Candle (Deluxe size, darling) and I’ll never have to blow it out. I’ll have more and more followers, people will care about me to the point of infatuation, they will reply to my daily, vapid, narcissistic stories asking how on earth I got my skin to be so dewy, “You look like the sun shines out of your arse, Liam! What products are you using?” I’ll light up, all my insides will make out, and I’ll ever so politely respond at my own leisure. Being better means I’ll be able to slide into the hottest joints and light up smokes with the hottest douchebags; I’ll be razor-thin with a personality to match. I’ll be everywhere I think I should be, where I’ll want people to notice me, but nowhere I need to be. I’ll be as shallow as a child’s paddling pool.
I’ve been trying to front it for so long, and I’ve burnt myself out, again. This isn’t the first time; every burnout feels different, albeit. I’ve been trying to create myself by recreating myself every day so you can find something new, something entertaining, something better about me that will let me keep your attention.
Because it’s what I’ve been taught! I, like many of you, have placed the algorithm of life ahead of my own well-being. Because if I am not excelling, I am failing – and god forbid, we become stagnant, quiet or mediocre (or worse, alone). This perpetual dissatisfaction for my present situation has not been spurred from social media alone, for sure, it’s been heightened because of it – but, I can’t blame it all on the internet.
The first time I was instructed to do better, to aim higher, was during pre-school. C’mon Liam, you can do this again, and you can do it better, don’t settle for this, this isn’t enough you can offer more than this. This sort of sick mind frame has stuck with me like an extra limb.
And when I do slow down, allow my mind to switch-off for a brief moment, I’ll still be watching what you do. I yearn for the calm in-between the chaos, but I’ll get anxiety if I don’t keep up with the chaos, if I don’t know what’s going on, my biggest fear in life is being forgotten.
Like, have you heard of FOMO? I’ve got a real bad case of it. It’s so bad I’ll put my desired experiences before my physical and mental health. I can’t shut-down. I can’t relax. I can’t put my fucking phone down because I’m worried my algorithm will swallow me whole. I can’t stop thinking about what you think of me, or if you care about me at all. I can’t re-code how my brain works. I can’t stop because I don’t know how to. I can’t stop because if I do, I don’t know how to start up again.
Whatever I complain about could all just be solved if I stopped caring about what you thought of me. If I started caring more about what I thought of myself. If I accepted what I put forward as complete. If I was proud of waking up in my body. If I stopped touching the rolls above my jeans. If I deleted my social media and stopped schmoozing spineless pricks who mutually disdain me. It’s so funny because I don’t even know what better looks like anymore. I don’t know what’s good enough because I’ll do one thing and then jump so fast to another, I won’t spend a moment appreciating what I’ve achieved or succeeded. I don’t even know what I want or when, if ever, it will be enough. I’ve skimmed over so many milestones and hurdled over so many cherished times to accelerate myself towards the next destination; I’m an addict railing up lines of the next best thing, desperately trying to overdose on your approval.
I won’t allow myself to slow down and smell the roses because the real roses are in someone else’s head – not growing on the sidewalk.
And that’s the problem, this insidious cycle; it’s really burnt me out. And it will continue to burn me out. This isn’t the first or the last time burnout will make me feel like giving up and torching my palace down. I know there will come a stage when I might want kids, and I’ll want them to be the best, to do more, to be better, I’ll want to show them off, and I’ll want to be proud of them. Do you see how this cycle forms and never quite ends?
I think the most ironic thing about this whole piece is that it’s a living, virtually breathing testament to burnout, the chronic bug I can’t squash. Because I don’t think it’s good enough. I’ll submit it focussing on what you think of it more than what I think about it. Why? Because I secretly love to burn myself out. I’m addicted to burning myself out. It’s all I know how to do.
Words — Liam Sharma
