It’s Burnout, Not Writer’s Block — Part 1

Eighteen months ago, I stopped writing. It seemed to appear out of the blue for me. In reality, it lurked in the shadows for years. One week I’m composing a few stories, then WHAM. Nothing.

Did I have writer’s block? The ideas were there, despite the energy being gone.

I ceased writing because I could not write. The act of physically writing. I simply burned out.

My experience with burnout started decades ago, but the pandemic and my personal decisions brought me to my knees.

So this is me.

Before I continue, let’s agree on the definitions of burnout and writer’s block.

From Merriam Webster–their second definition:

“Burnout -exhaustion of physical or emotional strength or motivation, because of prolonged stress or frustration”

“Writer’s Block-a psychological inhibition preventing a writer from proceeding with a piece”

“Burnout -exhaustion of physical or emotional strength or motivation, because of prolonged stress or frustration”

“Writer’s Block-a psychological inhibition preventing a writer from proceeding with a piece”

Let me grab synonyms to go along with burnout: exhaustion, fatigue, frazzle, lassitude, prostration, tiredness, weariness, overfatigue, languor, lethargy, listlessness, sluggishness, slumber, stupor, apathy, inertia, passiveness, passivity.

Writer’s block–has no synonym. I guess it needs no introduction.

I didn’t even recognize I suffered from burnout. How silly, right? I mean, who doesn’t know that they are so exhausted they can’t function? These past months taught me most people are oblivious to their own issues.

My jobs for the last few decades have been running or owning businesses, freelancing, caretaker for my mom after my dad passed, then working in a field I love, but where you experience survivors on the worse day of their lives.

Whenever a crisis hit, I’d “swallow” it and keep going. This affected my marriage, my relationship with my kids and family, and my career, and my ability to write.

My writing is a part of me, the air I breathe.

I was also a workaholic. I say it like it’s a nasty word.

I enjoy working. I started with a paper route at 12 and never stopped. Later, as a single mom with two wonderful children, I kept those smiles on their faces and bellies full with three jobs.

Work, home, snatch sleep, back at work, and write when I can. This cycle continued for the next thirty years.

“Busy” should have been my first name. After I married, it became “Tired.” Mom always said, “You are working too hard”, but I didn’t see it. “I can do it,” I’d say, yawning.

“Busy” should have been my first name. After I married, it became “Tired.”

Once my businesses closed, I changed careers to emergency management. I traveled around the country, helping survivors. My stories started being published.

When my job became full time instead of on-call, hurricanes hit several times in the South. My team worked 72 hours a week for eight months.

I transferred to another division, but burnout caused my immune system to fizzle out. Colds, allergies, pulled muscles, pain, surgeries. Conversations didn’t trip off my tongue anymore.

Leaving the house? Out of the question. I pushed myself away from everyone. My writing stopped. The energy was gone. Not the stories. They were there. The issue was getting them from my brain to my hand.

My mentor in my company had a heart-to-heart with me.

“You’re burned out.”

“Me? No, just tired.”

“You’re burned out.”

“Me? No, just tired.”

I believe her eyes rolled.

She told me if I needed a break or I wouldn’t be able to care for anyone. I listened to her wisdom, but habits die hard. What made me stop and look around was my health.

I needed a three level cervical spinal fusion. I didn’t ask the doctors questions and I talk to my doctors about everything. Not this time. I was too tired. The internet articles said recovery starts in a week.

Crippled by brain fog, I headed to work after a few days. Two weeks later, my body said “NOOOOO!” I began the worst panic and anxiety flare up in decades. I had no choice but to sit it out and heal.

It was scary. Hypersensitivity to everything. My meditations were not helping. I am not ashamed to say I sought a therapist. My attack was full blown. When I talked with her, I used words like overwhelmed, anxious, weak. That was the kicker. Weak.

My kiddos called me every day and visited me to raise my spirits. The anxiety took away the joy. Time heals all wounds, and it does. But time takes, well, time. For me, after eight weeks, life seemed normal.

Life is a jokester. We were very careful during Covid because of one child and their spouse have autoimmune issues. I had gotten my first vaccination. A week out, the youngest came home with from a friend’s with it. Still struggling with my health, I ended up spending a few days in the hospital until my oxygen levels became normal.

Once again, the paralyzing anxiety hit me. From the oxygen tank to the smell of PVC, everything bothered me. I hacked my brain into seeing how long chores before heading back to the canister. I only carried the cannister around for a week. Was the low energy here to stay?

Recovery from severe burnout can take up to a year. For me, the hits kept coming.

When my new position meant a cross-country move from a state I lived in for 25 years, I was not excited. A one week search became months. What was affordable wasn’t much. It scared me. Homes were gone before we could even place a bid. Apartments were more than a mortgage.

We searched for a house while I teleworked, staying at expensive Airbnb’s, watching the savings dwindle. Because we have two dogs, one at 170 pounds, no hotel would take him.

We found an old townhome. I sat exhausted in a chair looking at ceiling lights whose style was last century. My tiny bit of energy left me.

Recovery from severe burnout can take up to a year.

But I was settled after almost eight months. Now, I needed time. My job has stable hours. The healing began, but it didn’t happen overnight.

I got back into a routine. Shortly after, the words trickled in. It was a small victory, but I’ll take it.

As I vacuumed my office, I realized I had found my way to the other side. Am I out of the woods? No. But I have to come first.

Taking care of myself means saying “No”… to burnout.