Humanitarian Burnout (Part 1 of 3)
When I Finally Got Overwhelmed By My Humanitarian Job
And How The Tallest Man On Earth Saved My Mornings.
I quit my job because I was burnt out. I had long, tiring, stressful days. After work I couldn’t do or think about anything. Some days I numbed myself with beer or Gilmore Girls. Other days I lay on my bed and wrote down notes from the day: things that bothered me, things that still had to be done, things I had to remember in the morning. Then I would see Raja or host dinner or play cards with friends (Tuesday nights we played Sheepshead).
Sometimes I was a mostly functioning member of my community. Other times I was just lying on the couch and staring at the opposite wall. I had a small ceramic tile hanging from a nail next to my front door: pale blue and white, with Milwaukee, Wisconsin — my hometown — inscribed on it.
Staring vacantly at my Milwaukee tile was a hobby of mine in the days I worked for Relief Work Global.
I don’t feel like talking to anyone who happened to flee the war in Syria.
I didn’t have the energy to get up and put in a load of laundry: walk to my bedroom, pick up the dirty clothes off the floor, carry them in a heap to the washing machine, add the soap, press two buttons to start the cycle, walk back to the couch.
In the RWG days, I’d become exhausted during the work day, sometimes necessarily, other times not; sometimes intentionally,¹ other times not. Sometimes I exhausted myself. Sometimes others exhausted me.
Sometimes I started off energetically in the morning and then crashed in the afternoon. Sometimes my dreams at night — always work, always talking to Yusuf — exhausted me before I woke up in the morning and even had the chance to start my day with energy. This seemed unfair.
In the months before I finally quit my job, I would drag myself out of bed and into the shower every morning. From bed, I could not face the prospect of going to work. This seemed impossible. But I could face the prospect of stepping into the shower. This seemed doable. Nice, even. It would be cozy under the warm water.
“All you have to do is stand there in the shower,” I’d tell myself. With this promise made, my legs agreed to swing themselves over the side of the bed. Once in the shower, naturally, I could shampoo my hair. Then, while conditioning, I’d tell myself, “All you have to do next is grab the towel off the hook and dry yourself off. Easy peasy!”
I’d ease myself forward in this way, inch by inch, until I was sitting at my desk at work.
I played the same Tallest Man On Earth song, Forever Is A Very Long Time, every morning in the shower. It became my battle hymn, my anthem. I blasted it through my house and floated on the full sound of the horns through my morning routine. The song infused strength into me. After weeks of this, I felt I couldn’t make it through the morning without it. (Thank you, Tallest Man.)
Evenings, weekends, I tried my best to cook, clean the house, talk to my roommate, see Raja, talk with him and listen to what he had to say and share something from my day. Sometimes I’d tell him the latest RWG drama. Often, he said, he felt like he was talking to me but my mind was far away, focused on something else. He felt I was never right there with him. Always preoccupied. I was offended, but he was right.
I quit my job because I was burnt out. I think it’s the best decision I’ve made recently. And I’m proud that I quit with no other job lined up, to intentionally give myself time off.
“Time off”: a vague and slippery concept, a luxury afforded to those of us who have some savings. A beautiful, needed, yet slightly uncomfortable thing which is hard to explain to colleagues, still at RWG, who are equally as burnt out as I was but unable to afford taking it.
I suppose the point is to rest and rejuvenate, and eventually, find a new job that ideally is interesting and challenging but does not run me into the ground. I’m enjoying this time and lucky to have it. But, contrary to my own expectations, I don’t feel totally unburdened: just slightly. Meanwhile, people expect me to be totally free.
I have been avoiding Alaa for a while now. Alaa is my friend, a 24-year-old Syrian guy from Damascus living as a refugee in Jordan. I’ve known him for years, since I first moved to Jordan and met him through the Zaatari people I knew from work.
My friendship with Alaa takes energy, something in low supply for me right now. There’s nothing wrong with him; he’s a lovely person. The problem is that he is in need. I don’t have the energy to deal with any needs right now.
I don’t feel like talking to anyone who happened to flee the war in Syria.
I would like to deal with people who 1) have all their needs met, 2) are interested in meeting my needs (coffee, ice cream, validation, etc.), or 3) are Lorelai Gilmore and don’t exist in real life.
Alaa has lots of needs. He needs to learn English, he needs to get a scholarship, he needs to take care of his mom, he needs to process his trauma, he needs to immigrate to Canada. And he really wants to see me, he says. It’s been too long.
Alaa texted me while I was traveling outside Amman with Raja recently, and asked me to call him when I have time. This deviated from his usual two-text combo: 1) Hi. 2) How are you?
These are the only two things he seems to know how to write in English, and he sends them to me once every few days. I used to message back every time, engaging in small talk. Later, I started responding every other time, and now I only respond to him sporadically as my burnout has spread to the far-flung edges of my mind. I feel bad about the gradual withdrawing.
So his request for me to call him worried me a bit. I felt something was wrong. I told him I was out of town (sweet relief to be off the hook from the obligation to call) but I would call him after I got back (impending doom).
¹ Sometimes I found I was too tired to try to rest or attempt to feel less tired. It was somehow easier to keep hurtling along.
I wrote this piece a few years ago, when I was deep in burnout and overwhelm after quitting my job in Zaatari Camp, a Syrian refugee camp in Jordan. For more on my work there:
Thank you so much for reading! I publish all my stories here and on my own site, GeorgieNink.com.
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Originally published at http://georgienink.com on October 9, 2022.
