When Your Own Life Becomes Another Item On The List

One of the problems with carrying so much in your head is that your own life starts competing for space with everything you're managing for someone else.

I would remember Mum needed a prescription renewed but forget I needed to make my own medical appointment. I could tell you what medication she was taking and what we were waiting on, yet things in my own life kept getting pushed back.

The difference was urgency. If Mum needed medication, I dealt with it. If a doctor wanted something followed up, it went onto my list. My own things rarely felt as urgent. I could move my appointment. I could skip exercise. I could see my friend another day. There was usually no immediate consequence for postponing something that belonged to me, so mine became the easiest things to move.

The problem was that "later" kept moving too.

This wasn't always because I had no time. Sometimes I had a spare hour, but I was mentally tired. I didn't want to make another phone call or organise another appointment. I had spent so much time managing someone else's life that I had little enthusiasm left for managing my own.

Even enjoyable things started to feel like something else I had to organise. Meeting a friend meant finding a day that worked and hoping nothing changed before then. Exercise needed a space in the calendar. A weekend away required planning around appointments, medication, services and who would be available if something happened.

So, my own life became another item on an already crowded list.

When Everyone Comes To You For The Answer

Once you become the primary carer, you often become the person who knows everything.

I knew the medications, doctors, appointments and medical history. I knew which services were coming into the home, who needed to be contacted and where the paperwork was. But the information I carried went well beyond caring and medical needs. I also knew what was happening for birthdays, Mother's Day and Christmas. Who was coming, what we were doing, what needed organising.

Even something as ordinary as a broken washing machine became my responsibility.

My mother-in-law lived in an apartment, so replacing one wasn't as simple as buying a new machine and arranging delivery. The building had rules. No weekend deliveries. Weekday deliveries had to arrive during the day, outside peak times, so the lift wasn't monopolised. Delivery drivers couldn't use the front entrance, they had to come through the garage, and you needed to be a resident to get in, so someone had to meet the driver outside and let them in.

First, I had to organise a repair person to look at the old machine. When I was told it had died, I researched replacements, worked out what would fit the space, compared options and bought a new one. Then I arranged delivery and installation, made sure it complied with the apartment rules, organised for the old machine to be taken away and cleaned the space before the new one arrived. And, of course, I had to be there when all of it happened.

Rules, arrangements, phone calls, timing, access, removal, cleaning, installation. All because a washing machine broke down. The washing machine was broken in her apartment, but the problem had landed in my head.

And don't even get me started on home electronics.

My mother-in-law had little understanding of modern technology, and the Foxtel remote became her nemesis. We would receive several calls a week telling us the television was broken. Usually, the television wasn't broken. She had pressed the wrong button and couldn't work out how to get back to Foxtel.

For her, this was a big deal. Television was an important part of her day, and when it stopped working, she became bored and/or distressed. We couldn't simply tell her we'd sort it out next time we visited. For weeks we tried talking her through the buttons over the phone. Sometimes we got it working, then another button would get pressed and we'd be back where we started.

Eventually we typed out simple step-by-step instructions, laminated the sheet and left it beside the television. We even taped over the buttons she shouldn't touch.

It sounds like a small thing and looking back there's something quite funny about having to childproof a Foxtel remote. But at the time it was another problem, another phone call, another interruption, another thing to solve.

Because I was managing so much of my loved ones' lives, I also became the person everyone came to for answers.

"When is Mum's next appointment?"

"What did the doctor say?"

"Has she had her blood test?"

"What are we doing for her birthday?"

"Who is coming to fix that?"

Each question on its own was reasonable. The problem was that I had become the keeper of all the information. Even when other family members wanted to know what was happening, keeping them informed became another responsibility. I had to remember who knew what and whether something had changed since we last spoke. Sometimes I found myself repeating the same information to different people, while I was still dealing with the situation itself.

That was what made the mental load so relentless. It wasn't one enormous problem occupying my thoughts. It was hundreds of ordinary things. A prescription. A bill. A birthday. A broken washing machine. A Foxtel remote. Individually, most of them were manageable. The exhaustion came from being the person expected to keep track of all of them.

The more information I carried, the more people relied on me to carry it. And the more people relied on me, the harder it became to put any of it down.

Sharing The Task Is Not The Same As Sharing The Responsibility

One thing I learned was that accepting help didn't always reduce the mental load. Sometimes another person did the task, but I was still responsible for everything surrounding it.

Someone might offer to take Mum to an appointment. Great. But if I had already made the appointment, written down the details, reminded Mum, made sure she was ready, told the person taking her where to go and explained what needed to be discussed with the doctor, I was still managing the appointment. They had taken her there. I had carried everything else.

The same thing happened with shopping. Someone might offer to pick up groceries, but I still needed to work out what was needed, write the list and make sure nothing important was forgotten.

That was help, and I appreciated it. But there's a difference between helping me complete a task and taking responsibility for it. Taking responsibility sounded more like, "I'll organise Mum's next appointment. I'll book it, take her and deal with anything that needs following up afterwards."

Now I could remove the appointment from my head.

If I still had to remember, organise, explain, remind, check and follow up, the task might have left my hands for a few hours, but it hadn't left my head. I also had to look at my own part in this. I had become so used to knowing everything and organising everything that handing over responsibility wasn't always easy. Sometimes doing it myself seemed quicker than explaining it. Sometimes I worried they wouldn't do it the way I would.

But if I wanted someone else to take responsibility, I had to give them enough room to do it. Unless there was a genuine reason something needed to be done a particular way, I had to resist stepping back in and taking over.

For me, sharing the mental load meant more than having someone help with the jobs. Sometimes I needed someone else to remember the job existed.

Your Brain Shouldn't Be The Filing Cabinet

One thing I eventually understood was how much information I was expecting myself to remember. An appointment would need booking. Someone would mention something during a phone call. A doctor would ask me to follow something up. Every unfinished task seemed to stay in my head until I dealt with it.

I started writing things down simply because I needed to stop relying on my brain to remind me of everything. If I thought of something I needed to do, I recorded it. If I had questions for a doctor, I wrote them down before the appointment. If I was waiting on someone to get back to me, I made a note, so I remembered to follow up.

Sometimes I needed to get everything out of my head at once. I'd write down whatever was competing for my attention, without worrying about order. Once I could see it in front of me, I could work out what needed attention, what could wait and what I could hand over to someone else.

Writing something down didn't remove the responsibility. I still had to deal with it. But I no longer had to rely on my brain to remember everything.

Deciding What Still Belongs To You

One of the harder things I had to learn was that every problem I became aware of didn't automatically have to become my problem to solve.

When you've been the person organising everything for a long time, your response becomes automatic. Something needs doing, so you do it. Someone needs an answer, so you find it. Often, you've stepped in before you've even considered whether someone else could deal with it.

I became good at solving problems, which was useful, but it also meant more and more problems found their way to me. Eventually I needed to start questioning what I was taking on. Does this need my attention? Does it need to happen now? Am I the only person who could deal with it?

Sometimes the answer was still me. Caring has responsibilities you cannot hand over, particularly when you're the primary carer or have little support. But sometimes the answer was no. I didn't need to make every phone call. I didn't need to solve every family problem. I didn't need to be the person everyone contacted for information they could get themselves.

And when someone else agreed to take something on, I needed to resist keeping half of the job in my own head. That last part took some work. Had they remembered? Did they make the call? Should I check? If I continued monitoring everything I'd supposedly handed over, I hadn't reduced the mental load, I'd just added supervising someone else to it.

I still cared about the outcome. I didn't always need to be the person responsible for getting us there.

When Nothing Is Wrong, You’re Still Worrying

Some of the mental load had nothing to do with appointments, bills or jobs that needed doing. Sometimes I was simply worried about the people I loved.

My mum lived alone in our family home after my dad died. I worried about her safety, and there were a couple of incidents that made those fears much harder to dismiss.

During the middle of the night, Mum's neighbour heard a noise outside and went to investigate. He was attacked and left injured and bleeding on my mother's driveway. Police and ambulances arrived, and the sirens frightened Mum. The whole incident reminded us how vulnerable she was living there by herself.

Then something happened to Mum herself.

Every afternoon, Mum would sit on her front verandah. A young man who lived next door would arrive home from work and Mum would give him a wave. A simple little routine between neighbours.

One afternoon he arrived home and noticed Mum wasn't sitting on the verandah. He could see over the fence that her back door was open, which was unusual. He started calling out to her. When she didn't answer, something told him things weren't right, so he jumped the fence to check on her.

He found Mum lying unconscious in a pool of blood at the bottom of her back stairs. He called an ambulance immediately. The paramedics believed she'd been lying there for hours.

We were incredibly fortunate he noticed something as simple as Mum not being in her usual chair. But for me, the incident was frightening for another reason. What if he hadn't noticed? What if he'd come home late that day, or been away? How long would Mum have been lying there before somebody found her?

After that, worrying about Mum falling wasn't some imaginary scenario my mind had created. It had happened. Sometimes people talk about carers needing to stop worrying or switch off, as though worry is simply a bad habit. But when you've had a phone call telling you your mother has been found unconscious at the bottom of her stairs, switching off becomes much harder. You know what can happen, and once you know, part of your brain stays alert for the possibility of it happening again.

But safety wasn't my only worry. I worried a lot about Mum being lonely.

My dad had been the love of her life. After he died, there was a sadness about Mum that was difficult for me to see. She had once been outgoing and full of life, but after losing Dad she seemed lonely and, at times, quite low.

That plagued my thoughts. I would think about her sitting in the family home by herself and become quite emotional. Was she lonely today? Had she spoken to anyone? Should I go over? Should I call her? Was I doing enough?

There wasn't an appointment I could make or a form I could fill out to fix loneliness. I couldn't replace my dad or give Mum back the life they'd had together. Knowing that didn't stop me feeling responsible for how much time she spent alone.

That was another side of the mental load for me. Some problems had solutions. I made the phone call, paid the bill, organised the appointment, replaced the washing machine. Other worries had nowhere to go. I carried them because I loved the person, because I knew their circumstances and because I couldn't stop wondering whether there was something more I should be doing.

Those were often the thoughts that followed me home.

You Won’t Get Everything Out Of Your Head

For a long time, I expected myself to find a way to get on top of everything. If I became organised enough, finished enough jobs and sorted enough problems, perhaps my brain would finally quieten down.

The problem was there was always something else. Caring involved another appointment, another decision, another change in someone's health. Even when things were relatively settled, I still knew circumstances could change quickly.

Eventually I had to accept that some mental load simply comes with being responsible for people you love. I couldn't guarantee Mum wouldn't fall again. I couldn't remove her loneliness after Dad died. I couldn't predict when someone's health would deteriorate or prevent every problem before it happened.

I could put sensible things in place. I could respond when something happened. I could be there for the people I loved. But I couldn't control everything.

Accepting that didn't suddenly stop me worrying. It helped me recognise the difference between being responsible for what I could reasonably do and feeling responsible for every possible outcome.

Here's What I've Learned

After more than twenty years as an unpaid carer, I've learned that mental exhaustion doesn't always come from how much you physically do. Sometimes it comes from being the person who has to remember, organise, anticipate, follow up, worry and make sure nothing gets missed.

I spent years carrying an enormous amount of information and responsibility in my head. Some of that was unavoidable. People I loved depended on me, and there were times their circumstances genuinely required a lot from me. But I also became used to being the person who knew everything, remembered everything and dealt with everything.

That was something I could change.

Being organised helped enormously, having important information recorded meant there was less I needed to hold in my head. Learning that getting help wasn't the same as sharing responsibility helped too. So did getting better at questioning whether every problem needed to become mine to solve.

I don't think the answer is telling carers to stop worrying or somehow switch their brains off. Caring comes with responsibility, and responsibility takes up space in your head. What I wish I'd understood earlier was that I didn't have to carry every piece of it myself.

Some things needed my attention. Some could be handed over. Some could wait. And some were never mine to control in the first place.

I still cared.

I simply needed to stop asking my brain to carry everything.