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On the Shoals of Despair

She listened when a friend told her to ask for help

I spend so much time in my head, I fear that I will just start talking to myself. I'll become like the women I see on the street muttering, arguing with themselves, and then demanding spare change. Sometimes I can feel the veneer which separates us slipping. I catch myself moving my lips as I enter a bathroom stall or leave the elevator. Self-reflection has become my hobby—sometimes morbidly so. As I slide further into middle age, I become aware of the ever increasing number of things I may never do again or I may never do at all.

I am in the process of dissolving my fifth marriage, I have spent most of this past year caring for my father as he slid further into his dementia, I have had to undergo some unpleasant treatment for my own health issues, and as a result of my health I have had to give up a career that I loved. Accepting all this and my own aging process is part of the self reflection I am sure. I often ask myself the question we spend our life answering: who am I?

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