Burnout

I hate the word burnout. When I think of burnout, I envision a match, blackened and gnarled, smoking from its last ember. I picture fingertips singed from trying to prolong the life of that flame and holding on too long.

Burnout sounds too final. Like an ultimate ending rather than a period of dormancy.

I’ve been running on fumes for what feels like an eternity. Every few weeks I totally run out and have a meltdown. Too much bad news, too much stress, too little cooperation, too much dependency, too few resources, too much and never enough. What do you do when you reach the end? When there’s no fuel for the fire anymore?

The world is ugly, unfriendly, and violent. I live in Canada and the threatening whispers from the south of us are getting to be audible conversations, comments made without any sort veil or obscuring. To see what’s occurring to the rights of people so nearby and to think that could be my future, the future of my family and friends, has but me on edge.

The continued extermination of peoples around the globe at the hands of hyper-militarized powers is abhorrent. I can’t open any app on my phone, program on my computer, look at TVs, or even listen to the radio without being bombarded with bad news. My generation and those younger than me use digital means to communicate as our primary channels, and now they’re fraught. To try and reach out to a friend can mean seeing dead children if you don’t open the right page fast enough.

It’s important to be aware of this level of violence, but to be as powerless as the average person is in the face of the capitalist machine means the changes I can realistically make will not save the lives of those children. The gears of war will not grind to halt because I donated what I could afford to a starving family. My compassion is unending but my endurance is not, and I bleed and bleed and bleed my heart dry over crimes I cannot prevent or bring to justice. The small things I can do, I do. Seeing it day in and day out ages me in ways I didn’t think possible.

My job is a thankless one, and I’m transitioning to a new role that, on paper, should remove much of the stress of what I have been handling for over three years. My title might be changing and my responsibilities will be different, but the people I work with do not change and will not change. The dynamics will remain in place, and that promises to merely reshape the stress. I will still need to chase adult people around and ask them to do the absolute bare minimum – tell me what you did today. Tell me what you plan to do tomorrow. Tell me what the plan could be for next week. I no longer need to try and coax boomers to open the web browser on their phone (Yes, the one that looks like a circle with three colours. Click on that one. Try again.) and instead I’ll be coaxing millennials to just talk. Endless, endless babysitting.

The responsibility for things going right is something I take very seriously. My ethic is such that if you have the option to do the right thing and do it well, you should do it. There’s no room for half-doing something or doing a piss poor job in hopes that others will pick up your slack. As I’ve aged from a university student to a flailing adult to a more established adult, I’ve come to realize that sentiment is tragically rare and that others will take advantage of your willingness to help. I know I cannot change the world and how people operate, but I can’t help but rail against the infuriating irresponsibility and laziness of the general public. At least that’s how it is here. Maybe in some utopia, on another continent or another planet, the propensity for opportunism at others’ expense is absent. If I ever find out where, I’m going there.

I digress.

I know I cannot change this, and thus is behooves me to make changes to my own approach lest I have a complete and utter breakdown and wind up out of work, out of pocket, and out of home.

I needn’t change my inclination to help when help is needed, but I certainly do need to stop saying I’ll help. If others haven’t done the work they need to do, I don’t need to help. It isn’t my duty to help them. They can suffer the consequences of their actions and take steps to learn from them and do better. Right?

Right. Or so I need to keep telling myself, because if I don’t shut the fuck up and let others figure it out, I’m going to lose my mind.


I have long felt misunderstood by those around me. Growing up with an autistic mother meant she was never quite on the same level as me, or my sister, or my dad. Or anyone. As the eldest child, raised to be an achiever and perfect, a failure in communication could be disastrous. Despite my best efforts, there’s always been a barrier there with her, and no amount of clarification or de-escalation or arguments has ever made communication with her simpler. As a result, I’ve long striven to be clear in what I’m saying and feared not having my point made effectively. It’s become increasingly more clear as I’ve gotten older that even when I make my absolute best efforts to be understood, I’m not. I use simple language for folks who need it and more complex language for those who can. I talk my points through step by step. I do my utmost to make what I’m saying relatable and not a sermon, not a lecture. I engage as a person, not an authority. All of this work, all of this effort, and I am still misunderstood. It is the most excruciatingly isolating experience, and I don’t know what to do about it. I’ve talked with my therapist about it at length, hoping for some guidance. The summary of what we’ve reached is that rather than fight for people to understand me, I need to learn to be more okay with being misunderstood.

To be understood by others is what bonds us as humans. To reach someone and share an insight, share a feeling, is the epitome of the human experience. We are social creatures and to be alone or excluded because those around you don’t comprehend what you’re trying to communicate is torturous. While I agree with my therapist that I need to work on being more at ease with people not getting me, I wish there was a magic wand that would make it go away. I feel as though I’m in a glass box everywhere I go, and no matter how hard I scream the people right outside can’t hear me.

In all this, I feel powerless. Without a voice, without authority, without agency. The questions, suggestions, comments, and actions I have attempted have been unsuccessful and it feels fruitless to even try anymore. Shouldn’t that be freeing? In one light, this absolves me of responsibility. I’ve tried and didn’t make it. I learned the rules of the system and, in knowing them, know I can’t make a difference. Why should I continue?
Walking away from a situation that I cannot change does not come easily to me, and I’ve been beating my head against a wall for months, years, trying to make a difference despite being shown time and again that it doesn’t matter. Now I feel like I’m a fool as well as exhausted.

I don’t like burnout because it doesn’t hold hope for rekindling in the future. I feel completely, utterly extinguished. Surely there’s hope for a fan to the embers though, right? It doesn’t have to be now, but someday?