When the Body Breaks and the Soul Follows

By November 2022, my world began to unravel.

It started with my body. A cough that wouldn't quit. A foul taste in my mouth. Weight falling off without effort. A thirst I couldn't quench. I was up every fifteen minutes—day and night—running to the bathroom. My mouth stayed dry. My body stayed tired. Constipation set in. Fatigue settled deep into my bones.

Eating became painful. Sleeping became impossible. Living became exhausting.

I didn't know what was wrong. I only knew that something was.

Work added pressure instead of relief. Driving a special needs school bus had once felt meaningful. Now it felt like exile. Silent routes. Non-verbal preschoolers. Four-a.m. alarms. No social life. No ministry. No outlet. I felt invisible, useful only for the task at hand.

My finances began to unravel as well. Overtime threatened my Social Security benefits, but I was afraid to confront my supervisor—afraid to lose the fragile stability I had left. Every decision felt like a risk. Every risk felt unbearable.

By then, social withdrawal was complete. Since 2018, I had focused everything on my family, trying to repair what addiction had broken. But outside of them, I had no close friends. No lifeline. No one to talk to. Fear, exhaustion, and isolation closed in together.

And exhaustion does what it always does. It drives us back to whatever once worked.

So I returned to the only coping mechanism I knew.

The addiction came roaring back—stronger, more insidious, demanding more and giving less. It happened multiple times a day, hidden carefully from my family and buried beneath layers of guilt. I had promised myself I would never alienate them again, so I didn't bring the habit home.

I moved it.

Out of my house.

Onto my school bus.

It felt safe. Solitary. Concealed. And for a brief moment, it worked.

But the spiral had grown tighter.