Burnout was, for a long time, something that I neither understood nor sought to understand. I supposed it to be a phenomenon experienced by others and one that I would be immune to. Yet I sensed, about a year ago, that burnout was creeping up on me. My response was to imagine that I could power through and be superior to it. And then it overwhelmed me, devastating my business, finances and life.

I cast burnout as an outside force that knocked me over, because this is what it felt like. As I struggled with it, it seemed like a fight against an enemy determined to rip apart my life. In reality, however, the burnout was smouldering within me; and it was less an enemy, more a necessary salvation.

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To understand my burnout, it is necessary to survey a brief history of my work. My background is in academia. After my first degree, I went on to study for an MA and a PhD. I then worked as a researcher on two large collaborative scholarly projects; I took on some part-time lecturing; and then I landed a full-time lecturing position on a rolling series of temporary contracts. The latter job was the best I have ever had: I loved every aspect of it and devoted myself to it fully. After four years, however, the funding ran out and I was made redundant. I was 44, an age that for many falls within the prime of their careers; yet I was jobless and my academic career was effectively over.

I floundered for a while, unsure of what to do. I tried to write; I took on some private tutoring. But nothing led to anything, my resources ran dry, and I found myself in a desperate state. So, about three years ago, with few options left, but knowing that editing is something I am good at, I set up my own editorial business.

In a modest way my business was a success. I managed, quite quickly, to accumulate clients and work. Within two or three months, I was earning enough to survive: I could pay my rent and bills, and I could just about eat. But to do this, I was working 60 to 70 hours per week. I was never able to take any substantial time off (I estimate that, including weekends and bank holidays, there were fewer than twenty days over the course of two years on which I did no work at all—once, I was even doing some editing on Christmas Day). My income never allowed me to have a social life or to date; and, anyway, I never had the time or energy to do such things. Nor did I have the time to read for pleasure: over the course of those two years, I did not read a single book, fiction or non-fiction, that I was not also editing.

I recognize, of course, that I may have made mistakes and that my work practices might have been better. But editing does not pay well, and I was trying to make a living as a single man renting a flat in London. I sensed that this was not sustainable in the long run and that I would have to rethink my work (and, indeed, my life as a whole), but my margins were so tight that all my time was spent scrambling to generate enough projects to pay my rent at the end of each month.

The first warning signs appeared about a year ago. I was experiencing increasing problems with my physical health: recurring headaches, low energy, intermittent chest pains, poor circulation, and constant bodily tension. My diet was terrible and my sleep patterns were worse; I was chain smoking, reliant on caffeine and sugar, and developing an unhealthy attachment to codeine. I sensed that a heart attack or stroke could happen at any time. Yet I did not care about the prospect of either, for my mental health was falling apart too. I recognized the onset of depression: lethargy, listlessness, joylessness, and a deepening sense that I was living a life without meaning or value.

My declining mental and physical health began to affect my work. Nevertheless, I ploughed on for several months, just about managing. And then, a couple of months ago, I had what was in effect a sudden and complete breakdown.