November 16 2025: The Multi-directional Slow-motion Meltdown

For the past month or so, I’ve been dissolving.

Not metaphorically — but actually dissolving.

Into tears. 

Into fear. 

Into confusion. 

Into nothingness.

For days I kept wondering:

When did this even start? 

What was the trigger? 

How did I get here?

And the truth is… it didn’t begin at a single point.

It wasn’t one moment.

It was a slow-motion unraveling that I didn’t notice until the whole structure started collapsing.

It felt like living in a house that kept breaking piece by piece. 

A leak here — I patched it. 

Something cracked there — I patched it too.

For a while, the old skills worked. The tools worked. The systems worked.

But then the rate of breakage became faster than the repairs. The patches stopped patching. And without noticing, I went from living in a house… to camping inside the ruins of one.

Still trying to live life as if everything was normal. Still trying to operate like the foundation was stable. Still trying to function as if I had walls and a roof.

Until one day, the house caught fire.

And I was too busy fighting the flames to notice that the only thing left to do was… run and let the fire take it all.

Maybe the Amazon layoffs were just that final crack — the last drop on top of a long, simmering pressure cooker.

The one that tipped everything over the edge.

But it didn’t start with Amazon.

Something had been building under the surface for a long time — quietly, invisibly, insistently — until my system simply couldn’t hold it anymore.

… a thousand threads pulling at once… and so, my brain hit a threshold:

• the fear of losing stability

• the disintegration of routines that once held me

• the exhaustion of living inside a role far too small

• the loneliness that echoes in my bones

• the lake-person paradox: heart longing + heart fear + heart confusion

• the dreams — cinematic disasters — hitting deep subconscious triggers: death, postponed decisions, freedom, evolution, betrayal

• the strange sense that I was shedding a skin I didn’t know I was wearing

• the feeling of having no grip, no center, no foothold

• the terror of dissolving into a shapeless unknown

• heartbreak residues

• career uncertainty

• existential fatigue

• mushrooms amplifying the subterranean worlds

• the pressure to “figure out the next step”

• not enough sleep

• not enough safety

• not enough anchors

That kind of multi-directional overwhelm created a fog around me.

A feeling of being shapeless,

untethered,

undefined. 

Floating… or falling. 

Or both at once.

My system simply let go of the grip. 

Or maybe the grip let go of me.

And the meltdown came.

The Melting

It wasn’t a single moment. It was the climax of a slow-motion collapse.

I felt myself melting into emotional mush. Every cell dissolving. Every direction blurring. My purpose, my identity, my reality — slipping through my hands.

I watched myself dissolve in slow motion, powerless to stop it, able only to feel it.

Every emotion in existence rushed through me at full volume. My brain overheated like a quantum computer pushed beyond capacity. My nervous system cracked open into a state of:

• ​​emotional flooding

• boundary loss

• identity softening

• sensory overwhelm

• derealization

• hypervigilance collapsing into shutdown

The systems I had depended on —

my routines, my habits, my inner structures —

Collapsed. They all became part of the mush… melting away. 

I couldn’t journal. 

I couldn’t meditate. 

I couldn’t fast. 

I couldn’t think straight.

I cried for days. 

Curled into a ball. 

Felt insane. 

Felt broken. 

Like my mind was leaking through the cracks and pooling at my feet.

Nothing helped. 

Nothing held.

There was no “self” to stabilize — just the dissolving.

It was metamorphosis without a chrysalis. 

Disintegration without protection. 

Reintegration while still expected to go to work, answer messages, breathe, be a person.

And beneath everything, a core wound whispered:

“I’m not safe on my own in this world.”

The One Thing That Survived

At the climax of all this dissolving, there was one thing I could still do.

Not because I decided to.

Not intentionally.

Not strategically.

My fingers just reached for the keyboard — like the last surviving instinct inside me.

Writing became the only thing that stayed intact. The only thing I was capable of. 

Not a choice, but a reflex.

And that’s when I realized… writing has become something else for me.

Like a scalpel — the tool I reach for when I need to dissect my emotions, my thoughts, my memories, my life.

It’s also my closet, the place where I sort, fold, organize, and make sense of what is scattered inside me.

It’s my compass and my map when I’m lost.

It’s my bucket when I’m overwhelmed and overflowing (case in point now)

It’s the place I go to exist, to breathe, to speak, especially when I’m afraid or confused or shrinking.

It’s where I train my voice.

Where I feel like me.

Writing is the one thing I can do at every stage — even at my absolute worst.

The thing that pulls me up.

The thing that stitches me back together after I’ve been torn into pieces.

It’s my perspective generator.

My catalyst.

My thread back to sanity.

The force that keeps me focused, moving, alive.

Writing is the mirror that reflects me back to myself.

My aha machine.

My reclamation tool.

My chrysalis.

My container.

My way home.

So maybe that’s the point of all this?

Maybe this whole season — the dissolving, the melting, the fear, the crying, the dreams, the confusion — wasn’t only a breakdown.

Maybe it was a shedding.

A stripping.

A clearing.

A chrysalis cracking open from the inside.

A metamorphosis trying to happen.

The old systems failed because they were no longer the right systems.

I outgrew them.

This meltdown wasn’t a collapse of who I am — it was the collapse of who I no longer am.

The End and the Beginning – The nervous system reboot

I’m not unraveling forever. 

I’m shedding old emotional architecture.

But it feels like being on the spin cycle of a washing machine. One cycle after another. No clear end. No clean exit.

It feels like drowning because the old structure dissolves before the new one appears.

Like the psyche emptying the cup — but the emptying feels terrifying.

And yet… somehow…

I didn’t lose my mind. 

I didn’t break. 

I found a new bottom.

A raw one. A painful one. 

But a bottom.

And then — after all the crying, the dissolving, the chaos —

everything went quiet.

Not numb. 

Not depressed. 

Just… quiet.

Like a house once emptied of all furniture. Still echoing. But full of possibility.

Like a newborn’s first breath —

from the perspective of both the baby and the mother at once.

The struggle… 

the push… 

the contraction…

then silence. 

Air. 

Light.

A terrain instead of a void. 

A space to build, not a space of loss.

Inside the quiet: 

a faint warmth. 

A tiny flame.

Not enough to rely on — but enough to feel.

Enough to hint that something new is forming.

Where I Am Now

I don’t know what this next phase of my life will be --as usual..

I just know it’s a beginning of another shift.

A transition between identities, emotional realities.

But for the first time in a long time:

I don’t feel like I’m disappearing.

I feel like I’m becoming.

I’m not dying. 

I’m molting.

And somewhere inside this empty, quiet, cleared-out version of me — a new shape is forming.

Not visible yet. 

Not defined yet. 

But alive.

Until the next cycle comes along;)