When I went on leave last Christmas, I hadn’t taken time off in over a year. I know the exact number of days, a worrying number. I was coasting, barely, and habitually stressed. Every morning, I woke up exhausted, and to make matters worse, I wasn’t sleeping well. My body is odd — when I want to sleep the most, it disappears. My very own Nanny McPhee, except I need her as much as I want her.
I promised myself I would not let things get that bad again. I would take more regular breaks, and I have. Well, compared to last year, there’s been significant improvement. Compared to what I believe ideal, taking my first break in month eight is not all that great.
The exhaustion has a new companion, daily headaches. I only ever had headaches when I had malaria growing up. Having them daily now is worrying. Many times they come with odd dizziness, like if I don’t lie down and shut my eyes immediately I will fall. The hypochondriac within me googles my symptoms and hopes its just exhaustion I am not dying. There’s a term for what I am feeling; I have read articles on how to recover, but to name it, to write it here will admit to it.
I am relieved, but I wonder what to do with my break. I made promises to see many of my people once ‘free’. Alas, I am exhausted. I have a long list of apologies to dole out, for missed events, returned calls I promised which never happened, late birthday messages, the list is endless. My excuse of work never holds much weight, everyone’s working, everyone’s busy. This is true.
There are all the self-development tasks that I set myself that I have not done. The books that are supposed to change my life, or more realistically, give me a few one-liners to make me sound more intelligent at dinner with friends. A dinner I would likely bail out of at the last minute. There’s the catalogue of uncompleted courses I signed up for. Let’s not forget that I fell off on my volunteering commitments. The list is long.
This is the time to get back on track, on everything. I type a message asking a friend when she’s free, then I delete it. I pick up the phone to call someone back months later. I am unsure which hurts more, the guilt or the embarrassment, but it hurts, so I put it down. Maybe I’ll start tomorrow. Or the tomorrow after that.
I grab a book, a summer beach read which I doubt will give me any clever one-liners. With a cup of hot chocolate, I get in my bed, plump up my pillow to hold my head at the perfect angle. I flip over to the first page. I read. For pleasure.
