I Thought I Was Sad. I Was. Actually Drained.

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At sleepovers I was always the last one awake.

I was the first one there and the last one to leave. I had terrible FOMO. The ultimate social butterfly. I always had friends over growing up or was over at their houses. I was happiest surrounded by people.

But at some point during the party, I slipped away. Someone would notice, find my mom, who would track me down. I was crying in a corner. About whatever it was that day. They didn’t actually like me. They think I’m weird. The friend I really wanted couldn’t come over. I didn’t want to share. She didn’t want to share.

Mom would talk me back out there. No, they are looking for you. They want to play. I’d calm down, go back out and be fine. Until the next time.

There was always an explanation for the tears. Later, it was usually that I missed my little brother who had died. I missed my friend I had moved away from. I was sad school was ending. Sad school was starting.

The big feelings came first. The pressure like a balloon about to pop. The escape. The disappearance. Then, the tears. I’d do a scan through my head and find the reason. And the reason always made enough sense that I stopped looking further.

As an adult the reasons were more abundant. I missed my kids. My husband. I was overwhelmed. To much to do. Over-stressed. Financial strain. Life seemed off course.

The reasons changed. The pressure in my chest, the panic, and the tears were the same.

Photo by Omran Soliman on Unsplash

Last week we were packing for a family reunion. I scanned the itinerary, noting planned activities from morning into the night, and panic shot through me. I told my husband there was no way I was going to be able to manage that schedule. Wondering out loud what would be the best way to modify it.

I need people breaks. Quiet. Sun and heat breaks. Noise breaks. And time to myself where I can hear my own brain.

He said, you didn’t use to be like this. You used to just go and go and go. I couldn’t keep up with you.

He was right. And also wrong. I was always like this. I just didn’t know that I was.

The first day of the reunion was beautiful. I made meaningful connections and had conversations with people I haven’t seen in years. There was good food and fun activities. It was a wonderful day, from start to finish.

But back at the Airbnb that night I was overwhelmed by that familiar sadness. My chest tight to bursting. Tears. The heavy weight of big, sourceless grief.

Except this time I didn’t scan for the reason. I knew what it was.

It wasn’t sadness. It was my nervous system completely depleted. This is what overstimulation feels like in my body. It has always felt exactly like this.

Learning this about yourself late requires alot of retroactive translation.

Every corner I hid in at a sleepover. Every tearful meltdown I attributed to grief or stress or worry. Every time I disappeared from a party or a family gathering or a good day and couldn’t explain why. I was explaining the wrong thing.

The sadness was real. The feelings were real. The experience actually made perfect sense. But I was collecting data all that time while having nowhere to file it. No category. No label.

Overstimulation doesn’t show up packaged and labled. It shows up looking like whatever your brain already recognizes. Interpreted as something you know. For me it was self consciousness. And grief, because I had real grief. So those were the easiest folders to drop it into. For someone else it might be anxiety, or loneliness, or the sense that something is wrong with them.

It just needs somewhere to land. And it will find somewhere, whether or not that somewhere is accurate.

The second day of the reunion I didn’t go to everything. That was hard. I disappointed some people. People I love and appreciate. But I got to make a few really deep connections. Got to visit with almost everyone. Had an actually meaningful time instead of a beautiful day that ended in a dramatic collapse.

That’s the trade-off now. I do not show up to everything. I show up to enough. In a way that leaves something in the tank.

I spent most of my life believing I was an extrovert with an emotional problem. Turns out I am someone who loves people deeply, connects hard, gives a lot, and then needs significant recovery time. Not because something is wrong with me. Just because that’s how my nervous system works.

I still love people. I’m still social. But the FOMO has been replaced by something quieter. Trusting myself.

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If you’ve spent years explaining your feelings with the wrong label, I made something for paid subscribers.

It’s a short guide called Is This Sadness or Overstimulation? What each one actually feels like in the body, how to tell them apart, and what actually helps for each one.

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