Why I Burn Out

It's my own fault...

I went from months of posting once or twice a day to forcing out the occasional pathetic excuse for a short story. Here’s how I got there…

It started during spring break. We were on a skiing trip, and I had never skied before. We did lessons the first day, and me and my brothers were basically ready to hit the real slopes. The next day, we did. I went down a green slope twice, then stopped for lunch. That’s when my head started to spin a little bit. The shoes hurt my ankles and limited my movement.

I felt a little panicking in my chest, but kept it down, because I was doing well. It was my second day skiing ever, and I was ready for blue. That’s not that impressive, but I was fifteen, and watching everyone else being far better than me was frustrating. My mom kept going on about how her and her brother were doing black diamonds at eight (which is fine, and an interesting story), but I’m self-conscious and have a fear of being bellow average, so…

We all skied for a few more hours and I could feel my chest tightening. I stuck to the bunny slopes, and tried to ignore the claustrophobia of being stuck in the skis. The rest of family wanted to go down the big slope together and I agreed, even though I really didn’t want to.

The slope isn’t particularly difficult, but it was fifteen solid minutes of skiing, and that’s a long time. About halfway down, I started to panic. The tightness in my stomach moved up to my throat. I fell behind, then I fell—again and again and again. It was like I forgot how to ski. Each time, getting up got harder. There was one moment when I couldn’t get up. I just sat there, tears in my eyes. People passed and asked if I was okay, and I just laughed and said I was fine. After about five minutes, I managed to get up. My family had gotten worried and waited for me.

After that, I fell on purpose to slow myself down. I crawled over to the side of the slope, climbed up, then just hugged a tree and cried, full on shaking with sobs. The ski mask couldn’t hide my voice, or stop my whole body from seizing, so my family knew. I took the rest of the slope ridiculously slowly. Fifteen minutes turned into forty.

When I finally got down, I yanked off the skis and ran to the bathroom to cry more. I cried for probably an hour. It was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. When we left, I vowed to never ski again. I did—the next day, but only for a bit. I shouldn’t have pushed myself.

I don’t think I ever want to ski again, and I was enjoying it so much the first day. That’s what’s scary. I just snapped like that. I stayed home for the rest of the week. I posted thirteen things on Substack, and got my first ten subscribers. It was such a familiar feeling… That joy, so similar to the first day of skiing. For months I posted every day, sometimes multiple times. I loved it, then my stomach started to tighten.

I wrote a whole novel, and loved every second, but when I started the next one I couldn’t finish it. Every time I love something, the initial happiness is followed by that pit of dread that forms somewhere inside of me. I recently started sewing dresses and editing videos of it, and now that feeling is creeping in. I can’t enjoy anything without fearing it, because joy means eventual panic.

I’ve thought many times about what makes me burn out, and I’ve come to a conclusion. I compare myself to others. With skiing, I felt like I had to be better than all of my brothers, who are younger than me. With Substack, I wanted to grow faster than the average person. I wanted to post more, comment more, be more. My book made me feel special. No one I know wrote a book at fifteen in only two months. I let it creep into my conversations, because I was proud of it. Then, every little mistake in my draft made me regret my words. I shouldn’t be proud of it. It isn’t good enough.

I started to force myself to do things, not because I loved them, but because I was falling behind the others. I did the same thing with school. I’ve never been very studious, but I’ve always scored well on tests. That made me feel smart. I started to base who I was on how pretty or talented I was compared to others. Every B+ was an attack on my identity.

That’s what made me write more. That’s what made me start four more books. That’s what left me sobbing on a ski slope, hugging a tree. That’s what made me burn out. Still, that’s not what made me fall in love with those things. I am going to write another book, and it’s going to be about whatever the heck I want. It doesn’t need to be good for my age. I don’t have to finish it faster than most people. I don’t have to be better.

I say all of this, but I still get the feeling. The tightness moves up to my throat and chokes me. I still find myself sobbing in the bathroom, because I’ll never be enough. I still worry. How am I ever supposed to get a job if after a few weeks I crumble under the pressure? What if I have a kid and then realize that, though I love them, I can’t be a good parent full time. I can’t be a better parent than mine were to me.

I take good things, then squeeze the life out of them till there is nothing left. In short, I’m the problem. I hold too hard to the version of myself in my head that is enough. She’s perfect, and she’s too much for a human to be.

In conclusion, don’t do things just because they make you think you’re talented. You probably already are, but it doesn’t matter how good you are at something if you feel like you’re going to throw up every time you do it.