Powering Through a Kryptonite Malaise
Kryptonite.
Had I been able to muster any sense of humor, I might have wisecracked that it was this alien mineral—the toxin that could zap Superman’s strength—which had robbed me of my own (admittedly) self-proclaimed powers. Sadly, however, I was unable to find anything to laugh about when, late in August, my deftness for puzzling through the “what” and the “why” associated with emotions seemed to disappear.
This capacity for developing and articulating accurate insights about mood states had been an aptitude that, as a career clinical psychologist, I’d prided myself on possessing: these were skills that had been instrumental in my work, particularly in the fostering of personal growth and as a guide toward behavioral change. The issue now, however, had nothing to do with counseling patients. I was fully retired from clinical practice, after all. Rather, it was my inability to tap into my own feelings that was responsible for my consternation.
Initially, I’d diagnosed this problem as “a touch of lethargy, exacerbated by a late-summer heat wave.” But as August rolled into September and my superpower continued to fail me, I became increasingly perplexed. Except for experiencing a low-grade buzz of apprehension that shadowed me day after day, I still had no real clue about why every effort to jumpstart this skill had eluded me.
So, it was heartening when, two mornings ago, while picking up a prescription at our local CVS, a text from my daughter generated an emotional spark. Grace was responding to a “How ya doing, sweetheart?” message I’d sent the previous afternoon, and now, as I scanned her twelve-word reply, I reacted with a jolt. It was as if she’d spelled out in capital letters what, for nearly a month, I’d been unable to name. Quickly, I typed back: “Wow! Me, too!”
Just as I was about to hit the “send” button, however, an internal editor chimed in with an “ugh:” Your kid just shared with you that she’s “feeling off, has absolutely no energy, and is a bit on edge,” this voice chided. “Wouldn’t the appropriate rejoinder be to show some interest in what’s going on with HER? Instead of instantly blathering on about YOU?”
Ouch.
In an effort to temper this critic’s judgment, I reassured myself that she would have understood my comment as benign. Nevertheless, I wondered: although I had learned not to fear the worst whenever Grace offered an insight that reminded me of her past struggles with clinical depression, was this “Wow!” impulse an indicator that, along with my superpower, my Mama-empathy muscle had atrophied, too? As the pharmacist motioned me to the counter, I deleted my text and instead replied: “Bummer. Want to chat whenever you’re free? I’ll be around all week.” An emoji heart later, my text was on its way.
Throughout the day, the usual suspects—certain events or possible triggers that might explain why I felt so mentally spent—shuffled once more through my mind: Was it the recent death of my ex-husband, Grace’s Dad, that had stunted my ability to label and process my feelings? Or maybe I’d simply come down with a case of the end-of-summer blues?
Frustrated, I even pondered whether some neurological glitch was at play. Like a seasoned driver flummoxed by the questions on her license renewal exam, I considered these and a multitude of other possibilities, only to determine that the correct answer might be: Yes. No. Maybe. Or even: All of the above. The truth was that while I’d begun to understand the “what” I was experiencing, the “why” still had me stumped. So, when I heard from Grace late the next evening while sitting in the quiet of my backyard, I was relieved and ready to take a break from getting lost in my own head.
Daughter-focused, I greeted her call with a “So, what’s got you feeling down, honey?” in the hope that she’d absorb these words as intended: like a warm hug.
“No idea,” Grace responded with a sigh. “It’s been the same ‘blah,’ the only thing that changes is the day.” With no prompting necessary, she next launched into an update on her job, her friends, her relationship with her partner, all of which she admitted were “fine” and not the source of her fatigue.
It was then, while feeling stymied about how to console her beyond offering an “I’m sorry to hear that you’re struggling”—that it suddenly came to me. “Grace,” I suggested instead, “couldn’t it be that, like so many of us, you’re just burned out?” A long pause filled the space between us. “I mean, we’re living in strange, even dark times,” I proposed. “And you’re grieving the loss of your Dad. It wouldn’t be surprising to imagine that you’d be feeling emotionally fried.”
I waited as the words “burnout” and “living in dark times” circled in my mind. There you go again, the familiar inner voice tsked. Aren’t you again just talking about what’s going on with you? Chagrined, I realized that, in fact, this was true. For the first time in weeks, I had been able to name my dilemma and identify—at least in part—why I felt as I did. But before I could cop to my perceived fumble, Grace chimed in: “You know, Mom,” she replied, “I think you may be right. ‘Burnout’ captures it. Calling it ‘existential exhaustion’ may even be closer to the mark.”
Our back and forth continued for a while longer, with most of our discussion focused on practical ways to recharge. Finally, as I traced a circle in the grass with my bare toes, I asked Grace, “Sweetie, what do you need?”
A moment later, as if she’d intuited what I was really asking, she reassured me: “Oh, Mama. Don’t be worried about me, I’ll be okay. But it’s so good to talk to someone who gets it. And to know that I’m not alone.” We said our goodbyes then, with promises to chat again soon, and as I stepped through the door that led into the kitchen, I brushed a tear of gratitude from my eye.
This morning I woke early, feeling hardly upbeat, but no longer lamenting that there is no antidote for—as I now laughingly call it—my kryptonite malaise. As I pulled myself from under the covers, I decided to take a cue from Superman, for whom the remedy for energy depletion (at least according to the comics) was the warmth of the yellow sun. Yawning, I vowed to shore-up my capacity for insight by gravitating toward my own rays of light.
In this spirit, I am pondering now about which friends, either old or new, I will seek out today, either in person, or by email, or by phone. Because, as I was reminded while listening to my girl’s words under a blanket of autumn night sky, insight is bolstered when we fuel our connections with those who can offer us emotional comfort and support. There is a power to be found when we feel heard.
Best,
