So there’s a funny story about the next month - I’ve been prescribed a month of not working.
No checking work emails occasionally; doing a bit of freelance stuff on the side; just seeing what’s on the work social media pages; helping someone write something in a volunteer capacity…
Nothing.
I’ve not worked for a month, ever.
Wait… maybe when I had my first baby I did nothing for 6-8 weeks… but also, that was peak WTF time of having a new baby… and then I picked up some freelance work.
But every other time I have changed jobs, had a baby, when Pete died… 2 weeks was the most I ever didn’t work for, and even then, I was guilty of doing a bit of checking and balancing of work stuff.
But one month? An entire 4 weeks of handing over my job to others and committing to just being me and with my own self? I can’t even tell you if I have ever done that.
The reason for the time out?
Well, it turns out, you can’t just keep shoving all the stuff you haven’t dealt with down and hoping it will go away.
It doesn’t. Not even 5.5 years of willing yourself to operate and that you’re ok and you’ll be fine later.
It all started when after a few wines with a friend a couple of weeks back led to discussions about the day Pete died, which also led to a blow by blow account of the day and me recounting what it was all like. I thought nothing of it. I mean, I’ve talked about it a lot! But it turns out, I might not have dealt with the trauma of it.
A three hour uncontrollable shaking panic attack from 1am supported that theory.
As luck would have it, in the week following that, there were some fairly massive meltdowns in the house, some kids that needed support, some child psychologists expressing serious concerns about child mental health, school exams, three lots of high school subject selections, the reality of me about to have an adult child, and other bits and pieces which really all added up to me … well, being outwardly mostly functional but actually, not really.
For the first time since Pete died, when the counsellor asked me how I was going, I slumped in his chair and said: pretty shit, really.
My bucket was empty.
I had nothing left.
And helpfully, that meant my brain told me that unless I could give people more of me, I was letting them down.
But I have nothing left in the bucket to give.
The fear I had around this year being uncharted territory and of all the things I need to get my head around were seemingly manifesting in my not coping.
And so, with a berzillion apologies, I presented to my boss a medical certificate that said I need a month off - to reset, to recalibrate, to get myself back under control, to get my shit sorted, to take a breath…
I’m pretty sure I apologised more to my boss for saying I needed a month off than I ever have for anything I’ve ever actually stuffed up at work.
This is mostly because as a child of the 80s and teenager of the 90s, my entire self worth is tied up in my outputs and my work and the fact I had utterly sucked at my job for the last couple of weeks had left me feeling less than adequate.
And because for so much of my grieving time I have had to bear the majority of the load alone, and I have always held onto a deep seated fear that if I allow a crack of weakness to appear it will turn into me utterly crumpling under the weight.
So this counsellor GP who has been seeing me basically since the day Pete died, and who has not ever heard me ever admit things had gotten too hard for me until last week, left me with no choice except to call ‘time out’ for me whether I liked it or not.
So what do I do for a month with no work?
Well, 2 weeks of that is school holidays. So for 2 weeks, I’m going to unashamedly parent and remember to enjoy to the kids and being with them wherever we are.
I am going to force myself to walk - even only for 10 minutes - everyday.
I’m also going to tackle the things in my house that are a physical representation of my brain - an out of control laundry and walk in wardrobe and a cluttered kitchen bench.
I am going to attempt to finish knitting a scarf I started as a COVID lockdown project in July 2020.
Then, when the kids go back to school apparently I need to do something the instagram reel and TikTok influencers would have you know as ‘do the work on yourself.’
Which apparently includes exercise, nutrition, sleep and social interaction.
It does not, apparently, mean I get to lie on the couch, watch Netflix, eat chocolate and drink wine … the people who know the things tell me this could just make it all worse #annoying
I am absolutely confident that after a month I’m still going to be me.
Still whingeing about having to exercise and glowering around the neighbourhood … probably looking like this eagle:
But what I am also going to hope to be, is in a better head space to face what comes next like a child turning 18 and then finishing school; having another one in a foreign country for 20 days; and helping them all keep putting one foot in front of another.
And maybe with a slightly reduced feeling of guilt around a few things and possibly some emotions and trauma dealt with #highexpectations
Because I didn’t / couldn’t / wouldn’t stop in January 2019 … which means I have to now.
And that absolutely internally feels like a failure - like I wasn’t good enough or strong enough to handle the load.
Except I know deep down that it’s not.
It’s normal. And it’s ok. To put the load I’ve carried down, and work out which bits I actually need to pick back up again… and the bits I can put a pin in and say: done with.
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