What burnout actually feels like (part 6)
Exploring the debilitating symptoms of chronic stress
Last week I wrote about my experiences with psychedelics and meditation and why they didn't change the underlying behavior that led to my burnout. This week I dive into the physical symptoms and aftermath in the weeks following my first burnout episode, how I dealt with that, and the solace I found in a blue starfish.
1/ The aftermath
There was a darkness inside of me.
I looked outside and squinted at the bright rays of sunshine. After months of gray skies in lockdown that felt like they would never end, the warmth of the Dutch summer had arrived. It was a breath of fresh air and hope. People were running wild and free with pent-up energy. Tall Dutch men drank Heinekens and floated down the canals yelling and dancing. Clubs and bars were opening their doors. Our neighbors were singing karaoke.
But I remained indoors, firmly planted on the couch binge-watching episodes of How to Get Away with Murder on Netflix. I slept for hours and hours. Coffee was completely out of the question and would cause intense panic. Decaf was no good, either, and I stuck to herbal mint tea. I ate voraciously. It's as if my brain and body were straining to absorb nutrients quickly enough to heal whatever damage I'd done.
Any work on my startup that remained I was forced to delegate, or I just said "screw it." I couldn't read a book let alone look at my computer without feeling ill. The motivation, drive, and Mojo that propelled me before had vanished. I was empty. And I mean really empty. My brain felt like that old D.A.R.E commercial:
These were how the days felt directly after my burnout episode. It lasted for a couple of weeks and didn't seem to be improving. The borders were open, so we booked a flight to Sicily. That would be my recovery time.
We lived in a decent-sized apartment in a small town called Utrecht, but in our haste we underestimated the importance of a bath. In Japan, where I had lived previously (and live now), I'd take a bath almost every day — whether that was at home or a local sento or onsen.
The hotel in Sicily didn't have a bath, but it had something far better: the salty Mediterranean. A little bit of salt-water ("Thalassotherapy"), sunshine and seafood would certainly help me get back on my feet.
The sea was right in front of the hotel and I took a dip every day, snorkeling and in awe of the bright-blue colored starfish sleeping on the coral reef. This was the first inkling of joy I'd felt in weeks.
I met an American guy in the gym who was staying over on what I figured to be a top-secret mission, given that he dodged all questions about his occupation beyond "pilot". We spoke in Russian and talked about everything. He drank beer, I drank tea, and in these small moments of connection I could feel my psyche healing. It's as if a little elf inside of my head was stacking up the lego blocks to rebuild my confidence, will power and happiness.
I mustered the energy to run a little bit in the gym, yet I couldn't push it very hard without getting fatigued. But towards the end of the trip I managed to do a short hike on Mt. Etna, a small active volcano, with an overly talkative tour-guide.
My thinking was starting to become clearer. Now I was trying to process and piece together what had happened in my mind. I knew that my issue was stress-induced. I'd worked too hard for too long. I knew that I was lonely, and that the pandemic-induced isolation had taken its toll. I knew that I wasn't enjoying my work and that I needed to make changes. But what was my next move?
2/ What burnout actually feels like
And then an idea. I'd met a Dutch therapist at my co-working space a few months back and still had his business card. I remember he told me that he made $1,000/hour. He must be good, I thought. I couldn't afford him but maybe he'd give me some free advice on what steps I could take to recover.
Looking back at my email to him, it's surprising how coherent I was (apart from not adding that final parentheses at the end). I didn't call it "burn out" at the time but instead a "nervous breakdown."
Here's how I described my symptoms:
I'd forgotten a few of these until I dug up the email. When I wrote paranoia, this feeling came during the middle of the night. If you've ever felt the effects of a bad hangover then you'll know exactly what kind of paranoia I'm talking about here (not directed at anything, just the inescapable physical and mental dread that completely disappears after a few hours of good sleep). Both depression and burnout are associated with paranoia.
The pain in the center of my eyebrows and sensitivity to sound felt like I had just ran through a war zone as bombs exploded behind me. I had no concept of burnout at the time, so when I was googling my symptoms, one of the first things that came up was PTSD. I found out that people with PTSD exhibit burnout symptoms. In fact, the two aren't that far apart.
It's possible that I was burned out from my work and traumatized from the pandemic. Dr. Mathilde Husky, professor of clinical psychology at the University of Bordeaux, views the pandemic as “a disruptive global experience that can be construed as direct exposure to a traumatic event in the general population.” In other words, a lot of people were probably feeling the same thing. Double-whammy for the kill.
There were also a lot of sensitivities to food and drinks. Eating them would cause me a pain in my chest, which felt like gripping anxiety. Conversations with people were necessary for my recovery — to reconnect with others – but proved challenging as I found myself feeling drained after 10-15 minutes. Listening was literally sucking the life out of me.
In the same email, my self-diagnosis at the time was spot on:
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Misha Yurchenko's Newsletter to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.