“The cure for loneliness is solitude” Marianne Moore

Last weekend I burnt myself out. I gradually got so worked up throughout the week that by Friday evening I could barely get my fingers into the strings to correct all the wrong notes I was playing. The recurring words spinning round and round in my head were This Never Used To Happen. I was enmeshed in a negative spiral of destructive thoughts despite strictly maintaining the quintet of good habits which form the basis of my daily routine: exercise, Spanish lesson, meditation, journaling/reading and a walk. I put a ridiculous amount of pressure on myself just for a wedding. I reverted to my default setting when I played with orchestras which is no longer relevant or useful. Orchestral playing generally requires short bursts of focused playing whereas background music is more about stamina and a different kind of concentration. For this particular wedding I was playing in church and then at a different location for the drinks reception. It was a very warm day. I dropped my harp off well before the ceremony at the same time as the florist was setting up since the church was going to be locked until an hour before the wedding. Wise move – the caretaker didn’t return until 1.15.

The kind and quirky vicar arrived on his bike. Of a similar age to me, bearing a startling resemblance to David Baddiel, he had a calming energy and I felt comfortable in sharing my concern about my anxiety. He asked if he could pray for me. I gratefully accepted. It didn’t work. I was too far gone.

7 days previously I had lost my wedding-free practice weekend as I went to visit Mum, who fell 3 weeks ago and broke 2 bones in her right arm. It was a stressful visit, really horrible to see her broken physically and mentally.

Upon my return I practiced as much as I could in between my teaching but I was already tired and feeling very edgy. My anxiety steadily gathered momentum throughout the week and I just couldn’t switch off. I was like a RareBit in headlights, constantly checking my phone for emails and messages, ticking off checklists, trying my darnedest to catch up and get a few steps ahead if possible.

Seeing Mum like that made me even more determined to build and maintain my physical strength and, without realising it, I overtrained. By Sunday my wrists were painful and every joint and muscle was aching. Never a quitter, I still decided to go on a longer walk and although it was fantastic to escape to the warm sunny moors and hills, I didn’t have an ounce of energy. And I was ok with that actually as being outdoors helps me forget my worries.

After teaching 2 students with as much enthusiasm as I could muster on Monday morning (my motto has always been if I can do it myself, I can help them do it – on Saturday I couldn’t, at least not by my standards), I played for an hour in the afternoon. That hour was crucial and I simply played with no sense of expectation or pressure. I just wanted to put Saturday behind me. It was fine, one less worry!

I can’t find a pattern. I played a blinder at the last wedding a fortnight ago. I was in flow, unconcerned about anything other than enjoying my playing. The notes fell into place with effortless ease.

On Tuesday I rested and went to my writing group. My creativity levels were pretty low but by the last exercise, my imagination was running free again with talking cats and dancing trees as the characterful protagonists of my nonsensical prose.

In Wales my healthy diet went out of the window. My food is 95% clean with hardly any heavily processed food and I prepare almost everything myself. In Wales I just can’t do it. My sister has crisps and snacks in for the boys and when I’m feeling weaker, I can’t help myself. On the first night I had 10 squares of comfortingly sickly sweet milk chocolate. On the second night I’d completely given in and bought a big Toblerone, on offer for Father’s Day. I had 5 triangles in one greedy go, seated on the bench outside with mum. She had 3 triangles fair play to her. The warm weather gave its texture a yielding softness and the cheap chalky chocolate melted all too quickly in our mouths. In my defence I left the rest of the almond studded chocolate for her to finish off, although I had to fight hard not to smuggle it in my luggage.

I suppose the purpose of this post is to remind myself not to ignore the warning signs of imminent burnout which seem so apparent after the event:

I had a lot of anger and a lightning short fuse.

I was triggered (I loathe that word) by the slightest thing.

I wanted to sleep all the time.

I couldn’t stop and rest.

I felt I hadn’t worked hard enough.

I felt incredibly tense.

I couldn’t laugh or smile.

My jaw was clenched.

I had no sense of enjoyment or pleasure.

I worried about the future.

What makes it harder to deal with is that I’m slightly depressed, definitely menopausal and I do have a propensity for excess. I don’t like to leave things unfinished and usually I don’t stop until it’s right. Good enough just isn’t good enough. Or is it?