I Thought I Was Just Tired

I'm 38, and for a long time I thought being tired was just part of being an adult.

I have a full-time job, a partner, two kids and a mortgage, so there was always something that needed doing. Work was busy, the kids needed picking up, something around the house needed fixing, someone needed to be somewhere, and somehow there was always another email waiting for me. I'd tell myself that everyone was tired. So I kept going.

At first, I noticed I was getting annoyed more easily. Little things at work that wouldn't normally bother me started getting under my skin. I'd come home and snap at the kids, then feel terrible about it afterwards. I wasn't sleeping particularly well, but I was drinking more coffee and telling myself I'd catch up on sleep at the weekend. Then the weekends stopped being enough.

I started looking forward to Friday night purely because it meant I didn't have to think about work for two days. Except I still thought about work. I'd check emails, worry about Monday and mentally run through everything I hadn't finished. Eventually, I realised I wasn't really enjoying much anymore. I didn't want to go out. I didn't want to see friends. Even things I normally enjoyed felt like effort. I'd come home, sit on the couch and stare at the television without really watching it. 

The moment that made me realise something was wrong was actually pretty ordinary. My daughter asked me if I wanted to come outside and kick a footy with her. I told her I was too tired. She just said, "That's okay, Dad," and walked outside by herself. I watched her through the window and suddenly realised how often I'd been saying that lately. I was always too tired, too busy, too stressed.

I had convinced myself that I was doing all of this for my family, but I was so exhausted that I wasn't really present with them anymore. Eventually, I spoke to my doctor and admitted that I didn't think I was coping very well. I'd been expecting to be told that I needed to toughen up or get more sleep. Instead, we talked about burnout.

That word bothered me at first. I didn't think I was "burnt out." I thought burnout happened to people who couldn't handle pressure. It took me a while to understand that I hadn't failed at coping. I'd simply been coping for too long without stopping.

I'm still figuring it out. I've had to learn that resting isn't being lazy, asking for help isn't weakness, and being there for my family doesn't mean running myself into the ground. These days, I'm trying to notice the signs earlier. Sometimes I still have to remind myself that I don't have to wait until everything falls apart before I give myself permission to slow down.

I'm still a dad. I'm still working. I'm still responsible for plenty of things. But I'm learning that I need to look after the person carrying all of those responsibilities too. And, honestly, I think my daughter deserves a dad who has enough energy left to kick the footy with her.