It’s amazing how little you know about yourself until you find out a big thing about yourself. As far back as I can remember I’ve put my hand up to help people. You need someone to help set up your function? What time? I’ll be there. Can’t pack everything away yourself? I’ll stay behind and help. You have a problem? Here, let me lose sleep so I can solve it for you. And on the list goes.
I like helping people, I do. I’m not resentful at all. I like to be useful. But it’s always come at a cost. I could never understand the exhaustion that followed. Why does floating around talking to people at a luncheon party, as an example, exhaust me? I’m not physically exerting myself!
But now, oh now, it makes sense. The constant barrage of questions and small talk, trying to stay “focused” on the person talking to me, trying to formulate answers coherently instead of mumbling, trying to filter out background noise, forcing a happy smiley face, trying to flip through files in my head remembering who I am talking to and what I know about them, trying to blend and not draw attention to myself, and again, on the list goes.
Last Friday I got my diagnosis. Fast forward not even a week, and exhaustion has set in. I got my diagnosis in the morning and started a new job that afternoon which involves going to every house in my local town (460 of them) to deliver paperwork. I have 10 days to do this and I’ve done 414 in 5 days. I’ve walked over 40 kilometres, and spoken to a lot of people. I’ve been riding my “high” of diagnosis and this afternoon I crashed. My house is a mess, my 4 year old has the attitude of a teenager and I am tired. I have pushed myself beyond my limit in too many ways this week.
And now it’s time to rest and recharge.
As I posted on Twitter, I’ve learnt about the Spoon Theory the hard way this week.
The Spoon Theory