One of the most infuriating things I find about myself, is the inability to relax. I think this stems from working from home, something I have been doing for 16 years or so. Oh, and having kids. And a puppy. Days are spent constantly trying to catch up with a mental ‘to do’ list I have invented for myself, along with the actual checklist of daily chores and work-related tasks. Anxiety sufferers never feel they have completed or achieved anything, so even when the glass of red is poured and feet are up at the end of the day, my brain is still whirring away looking for something to worry about. Its crap. And yes, I know what I should be doing to induce that feeling of calm, but I only remember this at about 11.48pm and so promise myself that I will chant my affirmations, be thankful, drop anchor, ground myself, be mindful, breathe deeply, be at one with nature and be kind to little old ladies the next day.
I crave waking up refreshed, being able to jump into the shower without a care in the world. What is it about having anxiety that stops you from doing this? It sounds easy on paper and to others looking in at me I may appear to have it all in hand. My routine since lockdown to the observer is almost perfectly anxiety free - I get up with my husband, he leaves to go to work and I am on my own for a few hours (boys are now teenagers so life before noon doesn’t exist for them); I sit in my garden watching the birds while I breakfast; I stick a wash on, empty dishwasher and then take the dog for a walk. I return, have my first coffee in the sunshine before working at my home office for a few hours, at my own pace, with my own deadlines. Boys emerge, they grunt, they sort out lunch. We may do some family stuff like go for a walk or watch a film together in the afternoon but more often than not they disappear back upstairs and plug themselves into the cloud somewhere, and I squeeze in a few more hours work before my husband gets back and the evening ritual of cooking dinner, eating, evening dog walk and telly kicks in.
Instead, during all of this, my mind seeks fear, almost craving doom. It looks for chinks in the armour, for faults and flaws, spoiling precious moments like morning coffee in the sunshine. While I sit with the birds, I’ll spot the wonky chimney on our cottage and I’m re-thinking the building work we never really finished and worry about not having any money to ever finish it off. I look around the garden and spot weeds not flowers; see our decrepit oil tank we have which we only have filled a little at a time, paranoid it may burst and cause an environmental hazard. I hear the washing machine drum clatter and assume it is on its last legs; hear the puppy bark at the resident woodpigeons and worry the neighbours may get annoyed. Walking in fields around our village, I realise I have forgotten how to day-dream, my brain mentally clocking up things I need to do when I get home, missing the moment, too caught up in my negative reflection to appreciate the hares and deer that are desperately trying to entertain me. While I am at work I am disciplined enough to concentrate on tasks in hand, no problem. While I am keeping busy, my brain will focus – that racehorse brain of mine galloping around ticking off the ‘to dos…’ It’s the downtime I struggle with. Anxiety has a habit of waiting for the quiet times, the resting times, high days and holidays. It looks for problems that aren’t there, picks holes in the good, waits for an opportune moment to ruin a perfectly good day. It hates the beach, spa days, long walks, my bed, a hot bath and most of all, it hates moments when I am alone.
Before lockdown, I would travel for work a couple of times a year, spending sometimes up to 2 weeks away from home in my own company, without having to think about cooking dinner or ironing school uniforms. Idyllic, and pretty jammy, I know. But even then, alone in my hotel room with nothing to do apart from switch off, I can’t. I always have good intentions – I pack books to read to broaden my mind, buy travel and lifestyle magazines, make sure I have Netflix set to go on my laptop so I can watch all the films I want to see and have a list of podcasts to listen to. But instead, I spend hour after wasted hour procrastinating, fussing, checking social media, swiping up through feeds of people I don’t even know; squandering that precious time worrying what everyone is doing back home, trying to solve problems that aren’t even there. And each time I return home uncultured and unfulfilled, the bookmarks perhaps a page or two further along; angry and disappointed at myself for not being able to just let go.
Relaxing, for me, isn’t very relaxing. It is a skill I have to learn, which I am doing, slowly. Even when I am forced into situations where I have to, I find it hard to unwind. I think of shopping lists during Pilates classes, credit card bills when having a bath and whether or not the boiler is going to need a service when we all sit down for a family film. I have been having reflexology and amazingly this is beginning to work. Although my mind still craves attention, I am slowly learning to ignore it – so when I am in there, in the zone, in that comfortable, peaceful environment I am managing to let thoughts pop in and out without jumping on and dissecting each one. I now just have to try and incorporate this into everyday life – when I sip my morning coffee, take the dog for a walk or just sit and watch TV.
Staying in the moment and being mindful of my environment is hard for a wandering, nosy mind, but I have to learn to do it for the sake of those poor souls I share my life with. I asked my sons what they thought of when they needed to relax, and they looked at me as if I had just asked them what the chemical composition of unicorn pee was.
Nothing, they said. No thoughts, we just chill.
Lucky sods.
© The Real Tilly Fairfax
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