Resisting the urge to push through

"It feels as though if I stop kicking I might just sink. Into what, I don’t know. And that’s scary."

Dear fellow human,

I started therapy again. The kind where you sit and talk about intangible feelings. The room is in the basement of a fancy townhouse block in central London, a room into which you walk and feel the sound of the world dampen. There are just the right number of things in the room; enough to be welcoming, but not too many to be distracting. Everything has its own place. Fresh water, a box of tissues, and three cold grey pebbles perch on a glass table next to a chair. I choose to sit in this chair, not the chaise longue closest to me (I’m not ready to be horizontal with a person I’ve only just met).

Though I don’t have anything to prove, I find myself lining up reasons for being there. I just found out I’m autistic, I concluded six months of counselling but still feel like a toddler when it comes to emotional literacy and healing, and I need to talk to someone regularly else I fear I will implode. Within the first ten minutes I’ve developed a nervous laugh, apologised three times for talking too much about myself (which is ironic given I’m literally paying to be listened to), and stopped myself from lying profusely about how I’m actually doing.

Walking in, I didn’t feel I had too much to say. I just knew there were things I needed to tackle. Walking out, I realised I had barely scratched the surface. With tear-stained cheeks I stepped back onto the bustling streets of central London. My heart had been bust open in that room and it felt like everyone who walked past me could peer in. It is incredible to me how someone you don’t know is able to crack you open with a few words of observation.

It only took a few sessions for my therapist to notice my incessant drive. A drive to accomplish, to achieve, to fit in, to do, to please. I feel it almost constantly. The urge to perform, to act, and to give my all. In my body it feels like a persistent tension. Not the anxiety I get in my chest and throat when I feel threatened, but a low lying full body ache that persists in the background of my life at all times. I have grown so used to it that it feels like a defining part of how I experience life. I am always ‘on’, always ready to push through, always ‘doing’ despite my soul telling me to stand still.

This perpetual state of readiness for action has me frazzled. Burned out. But I find myself asking ‘what do I do with myself if I don’t perpetually drive forwards?’. There’s that word again: “do”. Truth is, I don’t have a clue. I don’t know who I am or what I like or how to ‘be’ without hustling. It feels as though if I stop kicking I might just sink. Into what, I don’t know. And that’s scary. I have to accept that I can’t know. And that’s scary too. I have an inkling, though, that I would be faced with a need for acceptance. Acceptance of my inability to keep driving forwards, acceptance of my need for help, acceptance of my disability. I think if I’m really honest this is what is driving me forward in the face of perpetual burnout: I don’t want to admit and accept that I am disabled. That I am not able. That I am unable.

You see, it feels like something that was only ever meant to happen to other people. In movies. In books. But the otherness is ‘me-ness’, now. It is happening. And when I see that I am flooded with guilt. Guilt for ever thinking I was special or different or other. Guilt for finding it so hard to accept my disability. Guilt for the itchy feeling I get in my stomach when I stop driving my way through life and face the fact that I am unable. In some respects it feels easier to keep pushing myself through the burnout. At least it is familiar, and at least I can prove that I am able. Right? Well, no. I may well be propelled forwards by the fear of being seen as unable. But I am unable. I didn’t used to be, but I am now. Well, actually, I always was.

I feel nervous even sharing this with you. I like to think that I am not ableist, but the truth is I am - not because I choose to be, but because I’ve absorbed and internalised our ableist culture. My internalised ableism is one of the reasons I find it so hard to take my foot off the pedal and just exist as I am. It tells me that I am not good enough as I am, that I should be ashamed of struggling, and that I’m lazy. Despite now understanding the connection between driving myself on and burnout and mental health issues, the internalised ableism is so strong that it often wins out without me realising.

Working towards letting go of my drive and finding strength to exist through the discomfort of who I am is me endeavouring to put my middle finger up to my internalised ableism and shame. A good friend wrote to me the other day when I confided in them about this. They helped me to see how strong it is to choose to take a step back, and to accept, instead of continuing to try to push through. They said:

‘Stepping back is a lot stronger than pushing through. Why? Because it’s the most uncomfortable option right now.’

Sending you love,

Charlie ♡