Fearing physical discomfort in burnout recovery

"My awareness is simultaneously the thing that allowed me at long last to take proper care of myself, and the thing that is causing me anxiety as I start to do more."

Dear fellow human,

Wednesday 16th August 2023

There was a time earlier this year when I couldn’t go outside. The world was too bright, too loud, and too unpredictable for my autistic burned-out brain. I shut myself inside my home for days on end, only choosing to leave when I needed to walk my dog.

At the time, I was acutely aware of my mental, emotional and sensory pain. The way I’d lost the ability to make myself the most basic food. The way the sound of children’s laughter outside of my house sounded like fireworks going off inside the walls of my skull. The way overwhelming and scary thoughts intruded on every moment of silence. The way emotions welled up and crashed over me like ferocious waves.

I felt trapped in a body that I couldn’t yet understand, even though most of my waking moments were spent trying to work out how to feel better. And yet, for some reason, during this time I was blindly unaware of my physical body. It was as if all of my energy was being used by my brain and essential bodily organs just to exist, and there were no fumes left over for movement.

I spent weeks in bed followed by weeks moving between the bed and the sofa followed by weeks on the sofa. Time blurred into what felt like nothingness and before I knew it going for a dog walk felt like hard work, the thought of a run was out of the question, and the idea of going to the gym seemed impossible.

When I was a kid, I played all the sports. I barely stopped, packing every spare moment outside of school and university with swimming, tennis, netball, hockey, rowing, and yoga. It was my medicine. I was a competent athlete, someone who could turn their hand to pretty much any activity and do it without too much difficulty. It sounds arrogant for me to say these things, but it’s the truth - a truth I didn’t know or appreciate until I lost it last year.

As I have been slowly recovering from autistic burnout I started to feel the desire to move my body creeping back in. I began to crave the ecstatic feeling of connection to the earth after a long hike, the inner glow after a yoga session spent breathing deep, and the connection between mind, body, and soul after a long swim in the sea. It’s a feeling I feared might never come back.

I am currently in Norfolk with Andrew for a few days. We are camping by a beautiful lake populated by plenty of ducks for Alfie to ogle whilst we read, write, and play games. Whilst we are here we are planning to go on a 10km hike along the coast. In fact, tomorrow is the day.

I’ve been imagining this in my head for months; what it will feel like to finally be out in nature pushing myself physically again. I’ve been slowly building up my stamina walking Alfie everyday and swimming laps when I have spare energy, but staring down the barrel of a long hike I find myself feeling something I never used to feel about physical activity: fear.

I’m scared I will push myself too far. I’m scared I will burn myself out. I’m scared I won’t be able to do it. This fear is so humbling. It pulls into perspective what I had before, and how special it was to me: my physical fitness.

The truth is, before this last year I never considered a world where I wasn’t physically fit. I never considered the possibility of not being able to exercise. I never considered the possibility of being physically incapacitated. I guess you don’t when you’re young and seem generally healthy, do you? Until something happens to you, or to someone you know, that reminds you of how lucky you are.

Sitting here now, as the lake reflects glimmering rays of golden light, I do not take my body for granted. She may have been weakened through the storm of autistic burnout, but she’s ready to start rebuilding - not just mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, but also physically.

Tomorrow won’t be easy. It also doesn’t need to be so hard I fry my central nervous system. After so many months of feeling like a stranger in my own body, being able to enjoy the experience of being in my body in nature is more than enough for me.

Wish me luck.

Thursday 17th August 2023

7:30pm

The sun is setting, the birds are chirping their final goodnights, Alfie is snoring next to me, and my body feels heavy - you know that weighty heaviness that descends after a lot of physical effort? So much of the time I feel groundless, like I’m a balloon floating around in the wind, so the solidity of this feeling is joyful. I am so grateful for today.

1:00pm

I have to keep reminding myself of my gratitude for being able to experience this hike. We’re about 7 kilometres in and after a start filled with chatter, laughter, and excited curiosity about my surroundings, I have started to waver. My body feels heavy, but not in the good way. I feel like I’m pulling each leg through treacle. I’m not tired, I’m energy-less. There’s nothing left in the tank, and I’m spitting out fumes.

Andrew has taken over holding Alfie’s lead and relieved me of the rucksack full of my belongings I packed to save us from every possible outcome. We’re a kilometre into a stretch across a golden sand beach when we pick a dune in the distance to stop at for lunch. As I’m walking towards it, I feel as though some intangible force is continually picking the dune up and placing it further away from us.

When I finally sit down on the dune, sand filling my trainers from the hole that Alfie immediately starts digging beside me, I realise that I am ferociously hungry. Scoffing down the small sarnie I packed for lunch, I realised that it’s not physical activity that I am fearful of. I am fearful of the bodily sensations of feeling imbalanced, unwell, or out of control in some way. In this case, hanger (when hungry and angry collide)!

8:00pm

My body is so sensitive to its surroundings, particularly in autistic burnout, and after years of suppressing these sensations I am now acutely aware of them. My awareness is simultaneously the thing that allows me to take proper care of myself at long last, and the thing that is causing me anxiety as I start to do more. Now that I know what it feels like to surrender to chronic and debilitating burnout, I don’t want to go back there. It’s as if my mind is two or three steps ahead of me and at the sign of any discomfort in my body sets off alarm bells - whether it be discomfort that I really should try to avoid, or discomfort that is easily remediable (most of the time), like hunger.

I suppose what I am trying to explain is that I see looking after myself as an imperfect balance that I will learn to strike over time spent in recovery. I will learn to decipher between the bodily sensations that signal ‘this is too much’ and the bodily sensations that signal ‘this is uncomfortable but it’s okay’. I don’t want to give up on doing things that set my soul on fire because I’m scared of burnout, nor do I want to ignore the warning signs and hit the depths of sickness I’ve experienced this year again, so my only option is to continue to experiment.

For now, little by little, I hope to continue to reacquaint myself with the experience of being in my body whilst moving through nature. And, next time, I’ll be sure to pack another sarnie for the journey…

Sending you all my love,

Charlie ♡