Tag: packing

Post-Accident Packing and Travel Anxiety [en]

I’m on the train to Paris. I’ll be coming back a week on Monday. It’s a comfortable, easy trip. The reason for my travel is I’m attending a two-day course on burnout – part of my training at the Gregory Bateson Institute. I’d planned on postponing this module until next year or the year after, given that my main priority now is building my working capacity back up following last year’s accident. But earlier this year, the whole curriculum was redesigned (it’s a good thing!), and the material on burnout will be incorporated into a longer module which is largely redundant with the courses I’ve already taken. So: now or never.

Following my relapse/brain crash earlier this year, I took the decision in March to pretty much clear out anything that was in my calendar. It was a tough decision, but it was the right one (people who have experience with chronic fatigue will know what I’m talking about). For those few plans I held on to, I « cleared the decks » around them to ensure they would not interfere with getting my work done, and that work would not jeopardise them. This means I took the whole week off for these two days of training, just like I took the whole week off a fortnight ago to go and see Mika live at the Caribana Festival. It worked.

In my pre-accident life, I might have travelled on Monday, attended the training on Tuesday and Wednesday, and travelled home Thursday. The « recovery » version of this is to add at least a day of padding in between training and travel, with nothing planned, so I can rest/stock up on « energy »/recover, and reduce the risk of (for example) travelling on a maxed out brain. I figured I might as well add on a few extra days (particularly as Oscar is not around anymore – something I’m really thankful for to be honest, with the awful heat wave that hit us over the last week), and catch up with a couple of people, if I’m in good enough shape.

This is my fourth « real trip » since my accident. I went to France twice for extended week-ends with family or friends last year. Each time was absolutely exhausting (but nice). Then after Christmas I went to spend some time at the chalet – first time I was going back since my accident – and we know what a disaster that turned out to be. This time, I think I’ve planned and organised things well enough and with a lot of caution.

As I was packing and preparing for departure yesterday, I realised I was really stressed out. More than usual. Packing and preparing to travel has always been stressful for me. It’s not the actual travel or being in a strange place or away from home. Or maybe just a little. What it is mainly is all the executive function acrobatics required in dealing with travel-related logistics:

  • making sure I do the things that need to be done before leaving
  • deciding what to bring with me (this is a huge one)
  • organising cat- and plant-sitting
  • inserting these « unusual activities » into my days at the right time, in the right order, and with enough time to carry them out
  • leaving wherever I’m at to go “somewhere else” – the transition itself.

Putting things in the suitcase is actually a part I like. It’s real-life Tetris: fun. Once I’ve locked the door behind me and am heading out with my luggage, I’m good. But before that, it’s complicated. I have got much better at dealing with it over the years, and with the clearer view on my executive function challenges that my ADHD diagnosis brought me a few years ago (and meds!) it’s even better.

I don’t have a very clear memory of how preparation for my two France trips went last year (only that I overpacked, a sign that making decisions regarding what to take or not was difficult, so in doubt, pack more). But I do know that packing for the chalet in December was a nightmare.

OK, I had already « crashed » during the previous week, but I’d taken rest to recover and felt functional enough to tackle it. And yes, it was also the first time back to the chalet since my accident, but I was really looking forward to heading back. I was aware there was maybe a little (normal) underlying apprehension that I might not be perceiving.

What apprehension I could feel was not about going to the chalet, but about the possibility of an unexpected emotional reaction to being there again. It was the same thing when I went back on the ski slopes: not scared of skiing, just worried I might have misjudged my readiness and have some kind of PTSD-like reaction to being back on my skis or where the accident took place. Nothing like that happened, by the way. Everything was fine.

This illustrates where most of my post-accident anxiety lies. I am normally pretty good, in general, in predicting how I’ll react, what will be challenging, what I can and can’t deal with. I know myself well, including my biases, and of course I know that when you expect something to do this way or that, it does have an influence on the outcome – I do my best to correct for that. Since my accident however, I have been blindsided by my brain more times than I can count. At times I feel like I do not know myself anymore, though of course I’m still me and very much feel me, but when it comes to “what I can take”, whether mentally, physically or emotionally, I’ve had a lot of bad surprises.

I am repeatedly finding myself in the situations where my brain does not deliver in the way I expect it to, and where I misjudge what I’m able to do. In my accident-recovery-life, the consequences of these prediction errors are swift: I crash. I don’t know if it hits everybody this hard, but for me in any case, it’s pretty traumatising to have my brain brutally and unexpectedly go on strike like that. Both the “brain not working” and the “didn’t see that coming” aspects are really scary.

So now, as time goes on and my recovery stretches out way longer than I initially imagined, as the clock of certain administrative deadlines regarding my return to full work capacity start audibly ticking, as I fail again and again to know my fluctuating limits, I can feel my underlying confidence in my abilities and self-awareness slowly erode, leaving place to self-doubt and increased anxiety about dealing with life and the world. It sucks: the anxiety is not crippling, it’s just a nuisance and an energy-drain at this stage, but I can see the process and the slope I’m on, and I do not like it one bit. Breathe. Relax. Deal with today. Be patient. Hang in there. Keep at it. Trust the recovery process. All this works, and I don’t feel in danger, but it’s more and more work to not let myself be dragged down.

Right. So there’s that. My trust in my ability to manage myself and deal with life is weaker than it was. So my baseline anxiety is higher, my executive function is struggling more, and I tire quickly. But as I was walking to my neighbourhood station to catch the local train a few hours ago, I understood that something else was probably coming into play in terms of post-accident travel and packing anxiety.

You see, my accident happened on the very day I travelled to the chalet for my holidays. I hadn’t been there for a while, I’d actually emptied the chalet of all my stuff and Oscar’s when I had last departed, so it was already an “increased stress” packing and travel operation. Nothing disastrous, still quite within the realm of ordinary, but not a walk in the park.

I got to the chalet (later than I had intended), got Oscar settled, dumped my unopened luggage in a corner and headed off immediately to get a couple of hours of skiing in on this first day. When I fell, I was heading back to unpack and enjoy the evening. I didn’t make it back: I spent the night at the hospital, in the haze and stress you can imagine, worried about my shoulder and my old diabetic cat who was alone at the chalet, trying to make decisions and organise logistics (How can I get back to the chalet? Should I go back to Lausanne? Who has a good shoulder specialist? Who can help me with my car as I can’t drive? That’s just the start of them). The next day a friend picked me up at the hospital and drove me back to the chalet, and another one came to help me empty the chalet and drive me back home. It was horribly stressful. I was in pain, I was freaked out, and instead of resting my concussed brain I was in full crisis management mode. It didn’t get better over the next two weeks.

I wouldn’t be surprised if my accident taking place just on the heels of travelling to the chalet didn’t add an extra layer of “negative association” to a transition that was never that easy for me to begin with.

Say you have a pet who always stressed out when heading to the vet’s. You do stuff to make it smoother: stay calm yourself, get your pet used to the carrier or the car, add treats, maybe a mild sedative, maintain usual routines as much as possible… It’s not great, but it’s not a disaster anymore, it’s manageable. And then, one fateful vet visit, something “bad” happens there. Not on purpose, of course. An exam that’s longer or more intrusive. A different vet. A loud noise at the wrong time. The pet freaks out, has a really bad experience.

Well, chances are that the next time you prepare to take your pet to the vet, it’s going to be more complicated.

That’s how I feel it’s playing out for me. I’m not actively scared of travelling or having an accident. But I’m clearly more stressed when preparing to travel, and some part of that could very well be the proximity of my accident to travel which has left a negative association. Not PTSD of course, but maybe on that continuum, probably closer to normal than pathological.

In 2019 I had a bad car accident (which resulted in surgery on my right wrist six months later). I was in a roundabout when a car entering it hit the back of my car right from the side. I didn’t see anything – there was a loud bang and choc and suddenly I was heading off the road right onto a big metal signpost solidly anchored in the ground. The car flattened it, ripped it out of the ground, and in turn it bent the car frame into a right angle. The car was totalled, we were lucky. I drove quickly afterwards with a rental, without issues. I’ve always liked driving and never been afraid at the wheel. But for months afterwards I felt a tiny surge of apprehension when going through roundabouts (it even still happens sometimes now when I’m on the precise spot of the accident). Nothing huge, but a clear signal – and this was on the backdrop of an activity (driving) that was very positive in terms of associations, compared to packing/traveling which was already fraught.

We’ll see how things play out over the next months and years. But I think I’ve put my finger on something that wasn’t on my radar. You know how sometimes you have an insight that just feels like it’s the missing piece? That’s what this feels like. In my experience, it’s often enough for me to just understand this kind of mechanism to defuse it. Like when I understood that a huge amount of my anxiety over Oscar’s impending death was the possible consequences this loss would have on my recovery timeline, given the post-accident uncharted territory I described higher up when it comes to my ability to “deal with life” in these times.

I typed this on my phone, with an external keyboard. Pretty comfortable I have to say, but not quite enough that I feel like adding links (there would be a good handful to add). I’d also like to say more regarding continuums between normal and pathological, and also on the somewhat related question of normality: when it comes to living beings, normal/average is a mathematical abstraction (or a bell curve), which should make us think real hard about how we frame certain realities (e.g. “neurodiversity”).

Anyway, I’m going to leave things there. I’m starting to feel a bit of motion-sickness and I feel just about ready for a nap in my comfy train seat.

Socks, Drawers, Tidying and Packaging [en]

[fr] Comment une histoire de rangement d'habits m'amène à accepter que j'apprécie le soin porté à l'apparence.

Right at the beginning of 2016, I stumbled upon this article, which in turn led me to this one, which in turn led me to read The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up by Marie Kondo.

It’s a short book. But, like Sarah Knight, it didn’t take me long to reorganise my sock drawer. I kid you not. Those who know me will be aware I am a proponent of minimum viable tidying. My place isn’t a dump (some hotspots are), but it’s not the tidiest place around and I definitely have way too much stuff.

Tidy Socks

I’m a long-time fan of A Perfect Mess, and Marie Kondo clearly takes the antithetic approach, with a cult of tidiness, order, and organisation which goes way too far for me. I was surprised, as a person who has never held tidiness or neatness in high regard, to find that I was very much drawn to the ideal she describes in her book. I dream of a life with pared-down possessions, where everything has a place, where my t-shirts and underwear are artfully folded in their drawers, where everything is under control.

Control. This is the draw. We crave control in an often misguided attempt to relieve our anxiety. This is not completely stupid: having control on our environment does make us feel better. Less moving parts are easier to feel in control of, one reason maybe why I regularly fantasise about a simpler life, and why we relax better on vacation (away from everything, life is indeed simpler).

So, if I’m not ready to let go of the belief that having a little bit of mess in our lives can be a good thing, what am I taking away from The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up? Quite a few things, to be honest, and in a way, it probably has already been life-changing for me.

The first thing I’m keeping is a precious tool to help me part with things: Marie Kondo advises starting with the easiest (hence socks) and emptying everything on the floor, before taking each item in your hands and asking “does it spark joy?” — I’m not too big on the formula, but I really like the idea. Does this object make me happy? Or does it make me feel guilty, bad, indifferent? There are a few things to unpack here.

  1. I like the idea of surrounding yourself with stuff that makes you happy.
  2. I like the idea of choosing what to keep rather than choosing what to part with.
  3. I like the idea of honing one’s parting skills with easy things first.

Number 2. up here reminds me of a packing tip I read long ago, I think it was on Tara Hunt’s blog (can’t find it anymore, and can’t find it on my blog either, though I’m sure I blogged about it at some point). It went something like this:

Instead of asking “can this be useful?” ask “might I be in big trouble if I don’t pack this?”

It changed my way of packing forever. The shift from “can it be useful” to “do I really need it” was really an eye-opener for me.

And Marie Kondo’s “spark joy?” test does the same thing. Instead of choosing things to throw out, I’m choosing what I keep. She also has some interesting thoughts about how to part with objects. Consider what their purpose has been in your life, thank them for it, and send them on their way to where they can fulfil their new purpose. In a very Shinto way of viewing life, Marie Kondo animates objects in a way that makes sense to me.

In that same vein, another takeaway for me is greeting your home when you come back. I’m not sure if I’ll actually do it, but I like the idea of projecting some kind of “personhood” into one’s living space. I just realised that I’ve been doing this for 20 years when I go judo training: we greet the dojo when we enter.

Another major take-away has to do with clothes. I was sure I’d blogged about my desire to try putting together a seasonal capsule wardrobe, but again, I don’t seem to have done it. (Senility? I keep thinking I’ve blogged things but I haven’t. I blame Facebook. For thinking I’ve blogged when I haven’t. For the capsule wardrobe, I blame Andrea.) So, yes, keeping clothes I like, rather than based on criteria like “does it fit”, that makes sense. And then, drawers. Yes, think about it: shelves suck. You can’t access what’s at the back. Piles fall down with time. And my IKEA PAX cupboards actually have drawers that I can buy and stick in them. Done. Ordered. My clothes will live vertically from now on.

I’ve already put this in practice at the chalet, where I’m staying now. I brought some dividers to tidy up my drawers, and have been experimenting with folding my clothes so they can be stacked vertically side-by-side in the drawer. What a revelation! This is similar to when I learned how to take off my socks properly.

I had honestly never given any thought to how I remove my socks. I don’t wear them half the year, anyway. But I did pester against balled-up socks in the laundry. The day I discovered the technique for removing socks without balling them up or turning them inside-out, all became clear to me: with no effort, from one day to the other, I changed the way I remove my socks — never to look back.

I can feel something similar going on with how I fold my clothes. I’ve never thought much about how I fold my clothes. I just fold them, and pile them up on top of one another. Like I was taught. Or hang them. Now a new world is opening up to me, one where I can pull out a drawer and immediately see all the clothes in it, without having to dig through a pile that inevitably topples over at some point.

The most surprising thing is that I’ve found myself quickly folding my clothes and putting them back in the drawer at the end of the day, instead of just letting them pile up somewhere random — on top of the chest of drawers or on the hooks behind the door. Folding is quick, and they have a place, so putting them there is a no-brainer.

Clothes folded in drawer

I think my future looks like tidy, organised drawers.

But this isn’t just about clothes. You see, I’m realising that I actually enjoy seeing a drawer full of neatly stacked underwear or t-shirts when I open it, rather than a big mess.

I have to admit it: I care about appearance.

This is a big thing.

You see, officially, I don’t care about what I call “packaging”. What’s important is what’s inside, right? Who cares if you make things look all pretty, as long as what you’re selling is good? Their true value should suffice.

I’m not interested in — or good at — making things “look good”. I don’t really do it for myself, either: forget make-up, and clothing is practical. I do my nails, dye my lashes and eyebrows, wear jewellery and have a good hairdresser, but that’s it. In my professional life, my disdain of packaging has long been a pain-point: I’m sure it costs me, compared to others who are great at packaging (and might not even have as much substance underneath the shiny wrapping).

I have a kind of snobbishness about it, though I’ve never really managed to pinpoint its origin: don’t let yourself be blinded by the packaging, see the value of what’s inside, blah blah blah.

But it’s hypocritical, because I’m expecting other people to not pay attention to something that I, as a person/consumer, pay attention to.

I appreciate it when people dress well and have good haircuts. I appreciate products and services that are nicely packaged. I love the box my iDevices come in. One of the reasons I use OSX is that it looks good, and I’m staring at it all day, right? When I buy home-made syrup my friend here in Gryon makes, I love the little labels she puts on the bottles. I like wrapping on presents. I like the card the vet sends me for Christmas. I like the pretty price-list my nail stylist has on her door.

However, when it’s my turn to do it, it doesn’t feel worth the trouble. For others, obviously, and for myself — and I’m not talking about self-grooming here. I love my flat, for example, but have never put up anything on the walls, though it’s been on my to-do list for 15 years and I would enjoy having pretty things around. Because it doesn’t feel that important. Because I don’t think I care. I don’t think I should care.

But I do.

And this is what this whole clothes-folding-stacking business is opening my eyes to: despite my official stance on the matter, I do enjoy pretty things. I do value packaging. I feel I am allowing myself to connect to something I have most of the time forbidden myself from acknowledging: there is pleasure to be found in being surrounded by things that look nice — and there is also, therefore, pleasure to be found in making things look attractive.

For me, and for others.