Yesterday I went for my annual physical health check-up. Bearing in mind that I haven’t been to one in the last two years, I was slightly nervous about what may pop up. As one ages it is only natural that our bodies behave in strange ways, in joints that creak or sleep that proves elusive. But these are only physical symptoms of what may lie beneath. I’d heard of people discovering malignant tumours, diabetes, thyroid issues and a host of other health problems that may not have been unearthed if not for this thorough examination.
Feeling quite frazzled after getting caught in traffic, getting lost and turning up fifteen minutes late, I expected my blood pressure to be shooting through the roof. However, to my surprise, almost everything came up normal. Yes, I registered as overweight on the scales, but reassuringly enough, the number on the visceral fat scale was low. (That’s the number that really matters, people. Go read up on it!). After having gone through the various checks, I was finally referred to the doctor, who addressed my concerns and anything that flagged up as unusual on my charts.
It was here that things got interesting. Perhaps it was her empathetic manner, or maybe it was my own desire to unburden, but our chat lasted a good forty minutes. We started with discussing my family history of disease and ailments – diabetes, high cholesterol, heart failure. Then we discussed what I should do about the excess weight I’d gained during lockdown. Finally, we arrived at just how I was feeling. Everything, she assured me, was interlinked.
I am peri-menopausal, so hot flushes are par for the course, as are mood swings and broken sleep. But it was my inability to get a grip on my stress-levels and anger that really needed addressing. For the past few years I had been putting everything down to menopause, but really, somewhere within me I was never quite sure whether that was just an excuse for my sometimes inexcusable behaviour. And the odd thing was that at work I could keep calm even in the most stressful situations. So why was I not able to do the same at home?
As we talked, she made me examine my lifestyle. In the seven months that I hadn’t gone to work, there had been very few occasions where I’d flown off the handle. Routine, rest and regular walking outdoors seemed to have worked wonders for my mental health. But being back at work had brought back fatigue, jetlag and irregular hours leading to stress levels rising once more. Alongside I was trying to complete NaNoWriMo – the national novel writing competition – in which I have to complete a 50,000 words manuscript by the end of November. If that wasn’t enough, I’d pushed myself to write a story in time for Diwali while sending off another one to be edited in time for December. Burning the candle at both ends, it was no wonder that I was feeling burnt out. And who would be at the receiving end of all that pent-up frustration? Not my work colleagues, no. My family. The people that I should love and nurture were instead being subjected to my rages and tantrums.
So often one is aware of things being awry, but it takes someone from the outside to point it out for realisation to take hold. November has been an incredibly stressful month for me. I haven’t given my body the rest it deserves, nor my mind the rest it needs. While there is no letup at present, because there is an internal doggedness that doesn’t allow me to take my foot off the pedal, I have also promised myself that the moment I feel overwhelmed I will take a step back.
If lockdown taught me anything, it was that when all the chips are down, it’s only your near and dear ones that stand by you. Yet, for all the world we present our best selves, and save the worst bits for the ones that deserve so much more.
My work/life balance is seriously askew. That is affecting my mental wellbeing, which is affecting my family life. In addressing this here, I publicly acknowledge that I am no superwoman. I only achieve what I do because of the unstinting support of my husband and my children. And it is for their sake that I need to re center myself. Yes, my job is incredibly important to me, just as writing is. Both fulfil me in different ways. But above everything else is the unconditional love and understanding of my family. For them, I need to be the best version of myself. After all, as Dolly Parton so wisely put it:
“Never get so busy making a living that you forget to make a life.”
