I sometimes feel as though I couldn’t take one more crisis. At those times I feel like if I get one more phone call telling me something is going wrong with one of my kids at school, or with a disgruntled parishioner, or the checking account is unexpectedly overdrawn that I’ll … I don’t know. I guess I feel like I won’t be able to withstand another thing.
The only thing I can think to call it is “feeling thin”—stretched to the point of breaking.
When I feel thin, the whole world seems to conspire against me. I can’t get out of the house on time to get to work or take the kids to school. I can’t find socks in a house when I know I have at least thirty pairs. The oil light flashes. The dog develops strange looking spots. I forget to schedule a meeting I said I’d be responsible for.
Feeling thin leaves me convinced that I have no business owning a house or a car, that I’m in way over my head as a parent, and that I’m only temporarily fooling people at my job into thinking that I know what I’m doing—but a day of reckoning is coming soon. That’s right. The jig will be up shortly, and everybody will finally see me for the fraud that, in my worst moments, I fear that I am. I think about how old I am, and how many more years I can reasonably hope to stick around, and I wonder if I can make it to the finish line without coming undone.
Ever feel like that?