It’s okay to not be okay.

No, I am really not okay. For months I have slowly been crumbling from the inside out. I am not scared of mental breakdowns anymore, nor am I embarrassed when I know my brain has reached its limits of stress.

In fact, I think it is healthier to have enough self-awareness to know when you are approaching your limit. I am strong, I am a survivor, and I am an empathic person.

Everyone is suffering.

A friend of mine was to tears because her designer bag purchase allowance for the year had been cut from three to two. She was deeply upset. It wasn’t about the fancy purses. She felt her life’s security was wobbly, and it was scary to her.

I met a mother at my physical therapist whose seventeen-year-old son had been shot. This sweet mother was so close to the edge of mental collapse it hurt my heart. I told her to care for herself and find a good therapist. It was okay to not be okay. I hugged her and said I would be thinking about her for a long time to come. When I was going into my appointment, her son was coming out. He still had the build of the athlete his mother had proudly told me was, but now he was curled into the wheelchair traumatized. It was obvious he wanted to be hidden from the scary things in the world. Though his physical wounds weren’t immediately visible, his emotional ones were. And they were horrific.

I am always taken aback by how callused some of our fellow human beings can be. Some people hang onto the lingering misery of their own suffering and spread it around to everyone possible. If they found no kindness during their dark moments, no one else should have any either.

Recently, a young man was screaming outside Saint Louis cathedral in the French Quarter. I agree he can say whatever he wants; he can proselytize with his bullhorn till his throat is raw. That is his right.

But what I saw was a young man calling people whoremongers and harlots, unprovoked, as they went on about their touristy way. I saw a young man who seemed deeply lost and was on a mission to punish the world for his suffering wrapped in the message of Jesus. What he said to his fellow human beings was jarring and honestly really sad. It can be hard to shuffle off a verbal attack when you are just out on a sunny day soaking in New Orleans. It was for me.

My Dad died a few months ago. (I am working on a blog about his passing. I just haven’t the emotional fortitude to complete it.) Since his death, I can feel the slow spiral into an emotional breakdown. I am not sure of all the clinical terms, but great therapists have helped me recognize it and accept myself over the years.

I haven't been able to grieve, really. As soon as I feel myself falling into tears and sadness, I pivot to thinking of all the bills, the dishes needing to be done, vacuuming, and laundry that never ends.

The truth is, I am really sad. I have been since I saw my father so sick. It is such a deep horrible feeling; I don't want to feel anything. And that cannot work for long, stuffing things into some hidden part of ourselves. Soon it bursts out like an infection through any thin layer it can find and often as anger.

I am angry at the dumb-faced person who suddenly got all haughty when I took my offspring in for a haircut. Suddenly their strip mall barbershop had turned into an illustrious day spa requiring an appointment booked weeks in advance. (Huge twitching eye roll.)

I am angry at the insurance adjuster who got snooty sideways with me when everything is clearly not my fault.

I’m angry at the fair-weather friend who dismissed my faith as less than.

I’m angry there were no bananas in two different stores.

I'm mad my shirt shrunk in the dryer because clearly, my consumption of cinnamon rolls had nothing to do with it.

I’m still livid from when I asked the doctor's office for a wheelchair for an elderly gentleman sitting on a bench outside the office and they didn't have any available. The gentleman just wanted to get to the bathroom, and he didn’t have the strength to make it.

I’m not really angry; I’m hurt and sad. And everything is becoming too much. The world is too big, and I am not okay.

I had a birthday recently. All day I kept expecting my Dad to call and sing to me terribly, like always. He didn't; I will never hear his voice again.

Here is that feeling again. A heaviness rising up from inside me, filling my chest before smothering me. I'm going to cry now. And I'm not going to be okay for a little while.

Suffering makes wounds. Wounds make scars. Scars are tough. It’s okay to let go and fall apart. When you rise again knitted back together, wear your scars with pride. It took courage to face down all that pain and heal.