It takes a lot to get me here, and here I am. I’ve tried hard not to get here. It’s not a fun place to be. I’ve done everything I could to stay away. My car crash last week broke the withering remains of my once-fierce exterior to bring them crumpling in on me.
I am not holding together. I am coming undone.
I haven’t felt this scared since the last time I lost my mind, about a year after my mom died. I was 26. Not crazy about the fact this is happening more often. My next breakdown wasn’t due until 52.
Twenty-three years of chronic stress, and I’m at my breaking point. That’s three years less than before. Alas, aging is a thing. I don’t like to acknowledge it, but I am simply not as strong as I once was. I have limits, and I have reached them.
I can’t hold the same allostatic load I once could.
When I broke before in my twenties, the only responsibilities I had were to a job I hated and two cats I loved. I’m so much more scared now that I’m an almost 50-year-old single mom. I have to hold …
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