Category: Lifestyle

Eventually, I heard the word ‘burnout’ by other sex workers and it suddenly made perfect sense. I couldn’t cope with the intensity that came with being a sex worker, a student and a full-time worker in another job. It was strange because I was so used to overworking. My whole life I committed myself to two jobs, studying and my family. Burnout wasn’t a thing. It didn’t exist in my universe. I was unprepared for its paralysing and merciless grasp. Once I understood what it was, I could keep it under wraps. I needed to learn how to recognise the signs of a burnout before it fully wrenched my spirit from my body in a vise-like grip.

I have learnt to accept the burnout as a sort of workplace hazard and how to manage it. Like a creeping UTI, I can battle it before it reaches me. It’s up to every sex worker to learn what a burnout means to them and to prepare for it. It’s unwise to avoid it or pretend it doesn’t exist because it doesn’t avoid you. It can cripple you and will only be rid of you when it’s ready to. I’ve only had one other burnout to that severity and length ever since. The second one was worse, it took me a month and a half to recover and it engulfed me in almost exactly in the same manner. You’d think I’d have learnt from the first but hey, I fucked up anyway.

After this traumatic experience, I learnt that if I were to continue to live my life as a sex worker, I needed the support of my closest friends. Lying to your favourite people isn’t a nice feeling, even if it’s for the better. No matter if it’s the starkest white of white lies, it doesn’t feel too good. So one by one, I confessed my ‘secret’ to the people whom I needed the most. All those people are with me today and continue to love me, even if they worry from time to time. I’m fortunate like that.

One of the key things I have learn from that experience is that even though I can meet my sexual needs through my work, it will never be exactly to my liking. I’ve isolated the trigger to my burnouts as a lack of sexual satisfaction and that might sound ironic coming from a sex worker. The thing is, no matter how many clients I see, my focus is always on them. I am incapable of focusing exclusively on myself. Even if it’s the clients desire to pleasure only me, I’m always pushing myself to be pleasured by them to meet their needs rather than completely letting go. As someone who works with hourly intervals, I feel I must orgasm for my clients within that fixed period in order to do my job exceptionally. Before long, I figured that I need to have sex for myself, in a manner that works for me and since then, I’ve found someone to provide that for me. Much like a psychologist needs to see another psychologist because of the sheer volume of emotion they’re exposed to and the adverse ability this has to manifest, so it goes that I need a sexual partner to unload on. A husband wouldn’t ask his psychologist wife why she would seek a psychologist when she could just speak to him and it just so happens with me that my romantic life and my need for sexual care are not intertwined. The sex that I have for me is not intimate or entangled with emotions; it’s raw and explosive and catered especially for me. As for my love life … well, that’s a whole other story.

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I was 19 when my first burnout hit me and I had never had a burnout before. I didn’t even know what a burnout was. The closest thing I felt to a burnout was a meltdown. They felt catastrophic but were nothing compared to a burnout. I have periodic meltdowns nearly every 3 months and they are a necessity whereby I would sit down after every episode and re-evaluate my life, direction and reposition my perspective.

Meltdowns feel like I’m breathing in smoke, slowly suffocating, it’s a building anxiety really. It feels like a wraith is stalking me, prodding me, adding weight to my shoulders, whispering nonsense to my ear. And finally when I’ve had enough, I react inelegantly. And it’s during these meltdowns that I realise I have unwittingly relinquished what the wraith has sought for all along and taken possession of my control. Feeling plight and embarrassed for myself, I go on with my day as if nothing occurred and I hope no one ever brings it up.

The signs of a meltdown are clear cut for me. I get distracted easily. I turn into a smart ass. I get colds. I have headaches. I don’t have energy. I’m grumpy. People keep telling me I’m on my period. My feet feel heavy. My eyes strain. Everyone annoys me. I need to physically stop myself when these signs are apparent because they don’t stop themselves. During these times, I have a time out. I have a kit-kat. I get out of town. I read a book. I buy myself new tea. I stop pushing myself. I stop pushing others. I just hit the brakes as hard as I can until I’m ok again. The wraith eases away and I hold it at bay where it belongs. That’s where it stays, that it’s spot, out of my way.

When I had my first burnout, there was no wraith. As a matter of fact, that anxiety was nowhere to be seen. I think the wraith scattered off when a much fiercer force foreshadows me. Like a mouse that sees a human, I think it did the smart thing and ran in the opposite direction. Me being me, I was oblivious. I just did what I normally did: I worked. I’m a hard worker, with nearly everything, all the time. I’m more comfortable that way, being stressed out is almost therapeutic for someone of my character. It can be problematic because I induce my own meltdowns.

I’ll admit that there was tension before the burnout happened. I didn’t see it then but I see it now. All the tell-tale signs were there but my determination coupled with my stubbornness often meant I had a difficult time confessing to my vulnerability, even to myself. I still sometimes do.

At that time, I never refused a booking unless I didn’t have time and I only took breaks when I was physically exhausted or otherwise engaged. Besides, I could sneak in naps between lectures at university. I didn’t know that by handling so many things at once, I was diving head first into a hellhole. My physical body took the brunt of the burnout before my psychological self did. Like a tsunami, it overcame me. I remember fighting the creeping sniffles, the ache in my bones, the numbing headaches, my withering muscles. Normally, I could fight off anything, I was ‘superwoman’. But overnight, my body succumbed and no matter what I did, I could not muster the strength to rise from that bed. Control was relinquished and I was left alone. I’m not the kindest to my body and it does have a tendency to shut down if I ignore its pleas: partying, sleep deprivation, diet, any of these things or usually a combination. Throw stress into the mix and of course my body betrays me. I thought that I had just pushed myself too hard as usual. The physicality was just the beginning. Within a few days, the simple brain functions went offline. I stared at the ceiling in my bed, at the walls, my eyes glazed over, with very little sensation in my body. I was numb and silent and I could only hear the sound of my shallow breathing and my monotone heartbeat. While music usually helps reach to my heart, but even that had lost its touch. It felt like a heavy liquid was flowing, drip by drip, onto the centre of my forehead. I didn’t move and I didn’t think. I didn’t even sleep properly; I just drifted wish-washed through the layers of consciousness. I was so far gone into a dream like trance that I forgot that there were people who loved me and who cared for me. Eerily, it seemed as though time had stopped and I was transfixed in a reverie of absolute nothingness. I wasn’t in any physical pain, it just felt like my soul left my body and I was left to deal with a hollow version of myself. I don’t remember leaving my room for anything although I must have. I’m not even sure if I ate food. My radio silence had people worrying for my wellbeing. I lay in that bed for a week, with little stimulation, no human contact, no desire to do anything. When I eventually came to, I was confused by what I had experienced. I needed to catch up on proper sleep and eat real food. I went to my family home, curled up in my mother’s lap and asked for her love and nurture. A few days later, I went back to my own home with some basic functionality regained but I was still fairly lost. It took a further two weeks to find my mind and my heart. My brain wasn’t working. I could barely string sentences together. My body struggled to do the simple things like hold a cup of tea. I would walk into walls. I’d give up on walking and lay on the floor. I would stand in the shower and forget why I was there. I would try to read a book only to find myself reading the first line over and over again. All in all, it took a month of recovery.

Stay tuned to tomorrow for Estelle’s road to recovery from sex work burnout …

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