When Fun Becomes a Chore

The hidden struggle for people with chronic conditions

Image by Juan Pablo Serrano on Pexels

When I read advice about how to manage depression, I’ll often see things like “connecting with friends and family” or some other social-based remedy. While yes, getting out there is good (a visit to a gallery/museum is said to have lasting positive effects), it’s not as easy as it seems for some of us.

I do spend a lot of time outside—but it’s often by myself. I like to go out on my bike or on foot and take photos as part of my self-directed “therapy.” That’s because when I’m alone, I don’t have the added task of conversing with someone, which seems simple to most. But for those like me with depression or social anxiety, it can be taxing.

If I’m out with friends—which is increasingly rare these days—I feel bad for wanting to jet early. The usual scenario is they try to get me to stay, which is nice of them. However, it also leaves me with a feeling of guilt if I pull an Irish exit.

Because of this, I often attend events solo as well, so I can leave whenever I choose. For example, I recently attended an art battle because it was just down the street from my home. When I hit “the wall” (ask any introvert what that means), I was soon back in my living room chair.

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A post shared by @introvertmemess

Here’s the point: going to a “fun” event is not always that enjoyable for people with mood disorders and/or chronic conditions like this one. The “fun” often feels like work, which leaves me feeling more exhausted by the end.

For others, joy seems to come easy. Some people are able to go from intense “work mode” to “fun mode” relatively quickly. For me, I need time to switch gears, and it’s not always a smooth shift. Sometimes I’m stuck in a low gear, which quite literally burns me out.

So, the advice to seek joy in the company of others is nice, but it’s not always ideal from the perspective of people like me. It’s difficult to rise to the occasion sometimes, and when I do, I finish feeling more drained than when I started.

A history of bailing out

This is not a new thing for me. I can remember as far back as my early 20’s (I’m almost 50 for context), wanting to leave restaurants or clubs earlier than everyone else. My “good times” have a rather short expiry, even when I was relatively young.

If I overthink going out, I sometimes don’t go at all, making excuses to myself to justify the decision. This is not ideal because it really only reinforces my desire to stay home.

Also, if I don’t immerse myself in an outside experience, then I miss out on possible connections. I have met a lot of fellow artists and writers by putting myself out there.

And despite what I’ve said already, I do have fun sometimes when I choose to join in—it’s a gamble.

A recent example of a good outing was a local concert I attended on a whim. I’m glad I did, as I ended up hearing some amazing music from talented songwriters, and snapped some decent photographs to share. I returned home feeling fulfilled, but that’s not always the case for me.

If I skip out, I sometimes find myself quietly regretting the decision later. Then I get resentful of myself, which obviously doesn’t help.

Cheezburger

It’s a tug of war between who I see myself as, and who I want to be—more specifically, the no-go guy versus the care-free bohemian, the latter my alter-ego. The reality is that I’m probably somewhere in the middle, and my brain can go either way on any given day.

The sad paradox of joy

I want to be able to say “yes” to more social outings. I’ve been working on improving this part of me for some time. But it seems the stars have to align for that to happen, otherwise I feel awkward and out of place.

If that’s the case, then I’m worried others will pick up on my vibe, and I’ll ruin their enjoyment. I suppose a therapist would tell me it’s not my job to entertain others, and they’d be right. But I don’t want to attend if I think I’d dampen the fun.

I know a solution would be to worry less about other people, which is also easier for others. But I don’t think I’m alone here.

I’m willing to bet many of you reading this have had similar battles with yourself. There’s a tired, melancholy person on one shoulder and a party person on the other, and they’re both making their best arguments into your ears.

My sad person often makes the better case. But underneath the relief of staying home, there’s a person who wishes they could live more freely, and that had more bandwidth for joy.

Logically, I know that connecting socially more often might help me feel more accepted, kind of like exposure therapy.

But on the other hand, I sometimes regret accepting invitations or committing to events because I’m just not up for it. And if I come home more frazzled/in more discomfort than when I left, that tells my brain that going out is bad for me.

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It’s a lie, but it’s hard to convince my brain otherwise.

Finding balance without support

Fun is supposed to be the thing that counterbalances the stress of work and life, and it seems to work well for many people. I am envious of people who seem to be able to compartmentalize their mind, clearing a big space for joy.

But for people like me, socializing requires social/mental energy. It’s probably partly my fault, as I hold myself to high standards, and am a recovering people-pleaser.

Fun, if I choose to seek it, also sometimes becomes a form of work—that I definitely don’t get paid for.

Can you relate to any of this? How do you manage it?