The Lighter Side of: Pushing Too Hard

Everyone experiences limitations.
Some limitations are physical, some are psychological, some limits are based in athletics, some in music, some in art, some in education. These are subjective, ever-changing, and highly personal. These limits and limitations are also reliant on our own goals and participation.
Apart from the very real limits of what a human being can actually do without the help of gadgets or gear, (like flying, reading minds, shooting lasers out of our eyes, etc...) most limits are temporary.
We can change them.
We can move them.
We have the power of conditioning ourselves to move our limits back and forth - as long as we are willing to make sacrifices and focus on our priorities.

I think most of us understand the consequences of pushing past our limits - in anything! If we are trying to do something active that we have never done, our muscles become sore. If we push past those limits, we may end up with a tear, a sprain, even a broken bone. Ligaments and tendons, torn muscles, these are all signs of pushing past physical limits.
There are others.
Like drinking so much alcohol that you wind up requiring emergency care to remove what has become poisonous and even life-threatening.
Overdoses.
Concussions.
Fainting.
Heat Exhaustion.
Severe Dehydration.
Vomiting.
Constipation.
Sunburns.
Organ Failure.

These are all examples of potential consequences of pushing past limits.
They do not happen to everyone, but they happen.

When you throw in a wrench: like an illness, it can be even more difficult to understand where those limits lie. Various types of chronic illness can even change one's own limitations on a daily basis.
I could manage to walk half a block today and not feel much pain or soreness tomorrow, but next week I could struggle to walk even ten steps without either vomiting or welling up with tears from the level of pain I experience.
It becomes more and more difficult to read when our bodies are signaling for us to stop. Or slow down. Or just take a break.

The Lighter Side of pushing too hard is that if you find the sweet spot, pushing too hard just a little bit becomes progress.

I am a full supporter in trying to be informed about your own limitations. This will mean trial and error. It means pushing too hard - pushing past your limits enough to suffer just a bit. I don't mean jumping in feet first when you haven't learned to swim. I just mean giving a little more, trying just that tiny bit harder, to see where your limits truly are. It means tuning into your own body and listening to every little twinge or change. Then, if you want to expand your limits, there are safe ways to work towards it - even with illness.
With yoga, I tend to try new poses or push just that tiny bit farther into a stretch. Sometimes I feel that exhilaration of positive progress, other times I feel the pang of severe nausea creeping in. It depends on the day. It depends on what I have had to eat. It depends on hundreds of different factors - but I keep trying.

With kayaking, I am a little more careful. It doesn't become about how far or how quickly I can paddle, it becomes about how far I can paddle and still manage to get back. I went for a paddle yesterday and it was one of the best days of paddling I have had in a long time. In fact, when I said the words out loud: "I think we should head back", I didn't actually feel as though I needed to leave. (Thank you, Adrenaline). My pain wasn't unbearable, I was not entirely exhausted, I did not feel as though I had reached my limit, but my subconscious sensed it. I had already pushed past my own limit, so I gave in to what my body was somehow signaling.

After I got home, I crashed hard. I couldn't eat. I could barely move. Not from muscle pain. Not even from joint pain. My internal organs were screaming. I experienced severe intestinal inflammation, a migraine, heartburn, stomach pain and cramping, and I could barely stay awake.
Had I pushed more - had I ignored that sudden urge to head back - it may have been a lot worse. There have been times in the past where my own internal system basically went on strike after I paddled too hard or for too long.
You wouldn't think that physical exertion could affect intestines or the stomach the way that it does. If I push too far past my limits - no matter if I am singing, playing piano, paddling, swimming, walking, biking, whatever - it feels like a sledgehammer to my gut and a knife in my back for hours or even days.
But yesterday, I pushed past my limit just that little tiny bit. Enough to feel accomplished and exhilarated, but not so much that I wound up in the ER. I crashed and had a hard time yesterday, but I was able to eat again today.
The lighter side of pushing a little bit too hard yesterday was that I had such a phenomenal experience that did not put me in the hospital.
That is an important distinction.
One that I am grateful for.
I got to paddle and it didn't feel like hell for long afterwards!

The Lighter Side of: Crash Days

I have always wondered what goes on internally when my body crashes. It is not exactly like I choose to lie down or do nothing when I crash. It is more the proverbial 'hitting a wall', mentally, physically, physiologically.
I wonder - if we took an MRI or some sort of imaging of my brain at the moment of crashing - what would we see?
Would it resemble a computer's 'blue screen of death'? All systems shutting down at once? Would it resemble a blackout, all little lights flashing off then turning back on? Would it be like the electronics in stormy weather, flickering, static, spotty communication?
Or would it show nothing at all?

I don't think it would show nothing, but I don't know if we have discovered the actual physiological reaction of someone who has 'crashed' from chronic illness.
It is more than just feeling exhausted and having a nap.
You know when you have been too active - pushed yourself too far - and the lactic acid has built up in your muscles?
It is sort of similar.
It is more like accidentally taking a huge gulp of boiling hot water that you thought was not boiling. You feel the burn go down your esophagus and into your stomach, but there is nothing you can do to improve the discomfort. You can try eating carbs or drinking cold water, but the damage is done. So you start to fidget and move around and flail about, hoping to distract yourself from pain.
Crashes are much like that. Every part of your body feels burned from the inside out. A build-up of acid - in your organs, in the cavities that house your organs, in your brain and bones and muscles.
You become irritable and begin to feel like you may collapse (and sometimes you do collapse). You feel like you have NO idea how you are even going to make it through the day.
So when you finally have a moment to lie down, your body shuts down entirely. You fall into this restless kind of sleep where you forget where you are, who you are, and what you're doing. The entire world melts away as though you have mentally left that world because your body can very literally take no more.

My crash day was yesterday.
I had hoped I could make it until today because our youngest pooch had an appointment yesterday that I had to take him to by myself but, alas, it was yesterday. Nothing was working. Everything was hurting. I could not think straight and it took ALL my stores of energy just to get him to the appointment.
He was whining, Decker was whining when we were leaving, I forgot doggy bags and had to go back. Then I forgot his obligatory stool sample and had to turn back. I was stressed. I was angry - really angry - for no real reason. I felt a strong compelling urge to punch things and scream.
Instead, I sat in my car and cried for an indulgent moment, then got on with the day.
When we got home, I got the boys lunch, then I went to lie down in the bedroom without even putting the little one in his kennel.

Somewhere in that crash, Rj had come upstairs, took the dogs out, shut the doors. I apparently had put an eye mask on and earplugs in. Total escape. I crashed for over two hours. Woke up with a fever and excessive dry mouth. Felt like I had been hit by a train. This crash did not at all affect my sleep last night either.
That's also a good indication of a crash - a 2 hour nap in the afternoon causes zero difficulty falling asleep later. I did have trouble relaxing to fall asleep though, but that was because of pain, not insomnia.

Today is the after-effect.
Not as angry, not as frantic, more just physically exhausted. So I am cuddling with the puppies. I am watching Netflix. I am watching the rain outside, drinking Boost so as not to irritate my intestines further. Today will be filled with tea, hot chocolate, Boost, maybe jello or pudding or yogurt, ice cream, lots of movies, puppy cuddles, and a backrub later.

For years, these crash days would happen once a week, then they reduced to once a month. Now, because I have not been working, these crash days happen 3 or 4 times a year. They happen when I try to do too much. They happen when I do not allow myself enough break time.

The Lighter Side of: Crash Days is that they FORCE you to take a much-needed break. Crashes allow our brains to disappear, without damage. They require resting, easy soft foods, and lots of lying down. I am not expected to do anything. I am not expected to even be awake through the whole day. I am cuddled and held and waited on (a little bit). Most of all, though, I am through the worst of it.
The best part of crash days is the ice cream. No guilt, eating out of the tub, like a bad breakup. My usual tub of ice cream of choice: Turtles.
:)