Coding Through the Storm: My Battle with Burnout
There I was, a developer knee-deep in code, hammering away at my mechanical keyboard like a maniac, coffee mug at hand. Then, the apocalypse of the mind struck. Merely contemplating coding another godforsaken HTML form made my pulse quicken and my palms clammy.
Burnout had me in its vice grip. It's that grotesque, soul-draining state where your energy and motivation evaporate. Cynicism reigns supreme, and you feel like a worthless speck incapable of achieving anything. In short, it was like I had morphed into a broken-down car firmly lodged in life's mud.
I recognized the fragility of the human mind. I began to see that the key to repairing my broken-down car lay in understanding the balance between chaos and order, destruction and creation.
So, I threw a Hail Mary and shifted gears, reinventing myself as a manager. I took only selected projects to salvage the remnants of my well-being. It helped, but the ultimate form of fixing it still eluded me. Besides changing my role, I realized that I needed to change deeply and find ways to unwind and recharge.
I experimented with it all: dropping social media, reading lots of fiction, drugs (both legal and illegal), removing blue light and ambient music. None of them truly scratched the itch. And then, like an epiphany, it dawned on me. Out of nowhere, stumbled upon some truths that, while not universal, sure as hell resonated with me:
Consuming isn't unwinding. All those books, games, and podcasts? They're merely maintenance for a well-oiled car. But that wasn't me; I was a pretty fucked up car.
Fewer stimuli equal more unwinding. Close those eyes, shut out the noise. It's all about disconnecting from the world and its ceaseless cacophony.
That’s also why people worship their noise-canceling headphones.
Drugs? Nope. They might offer a small window of medicated peace, but they'll come back to bite you in the ass. My car was already a disaster; there was no need to inflict further damage.
Sensory deprivation tanks occasionally worked miracles, but at other times, they sent my mind spiraling into overdrive.
Meditation is not a silver bullet. If you think meditation alone will douse the flames engulfing your nearly incinerated car, you're in for a rude awakening. It's akin to blowing gently on a raging inferno, hoping to snuff it out. Instead, the fire grows more voracious, consuming all in its path.
But don't write it off entirely. It gave me a useful nugget of wisdom: ideas as fleeting clouds. My car was in ruins, and many tasks loomed large, but who cares? They were only abstract concepts, fleeting wisps of vapor. They didn't define me. Let them drift and vanish; they'll never stop to pile. The trick is learning not to give a damn about them.
And out of nowhere, I discovered the real solution — so simple, and it has always been there: sleep. Sleeping was an ethereal force swooping in to rescue and repair my ruined car.
I count my blessings for the absence of sleep troubles in my life. Plunging headfirst into the unknown, I dive into slumber without hesitation. I embark on the nightly journey, and off I go. The thought of those who wrestle with sleep troubles leaves an ache in my heart.
When I sleep, I'm not consuming, thinking, or stressing. I'm off, letting those otherworldly powers weave their magic. It's surgery. Granted, my dreams mainly had gone missing since the burnout started, but I think my subconscious is more worried about fixing the wreckage.
We're all fighting a battle to reclaim our sanity in some sense, and, at least to me, the key lies in embracing the darkness. With every night's sleep or nap, my broken car is being rebuilt, piece by piece.
If I could, I'd blend it all: savor time with loved ones, moderately consume things and sleep as if my life depended on it (because it does).
Unfortunately, I'm still far from that nirvana. I insist on trying to keep everything in fragile balance, but each time I lay my head to sleep, I'm confident I'm healing myself, one slumber at a time.
