There’s a moment when everything breaks. Except for me, it wasn’t really a moment. It was a slow undoing that unfolded over months in a fluorescent-lit office, staring at case files while my capacity quietly dissolved. I couldn’t concentrate. My executive functioning had vanished. All I could manage was going to work and coming home. That’s all the energy I had left. Then my psoriasis flared worse than it ever had, angry red patches spreading across my skin like a map of my stress. The inflammation triggered psoriatic arthritis, and suddenly my joints were screaming along with my mind. I was 37, a therapist, a single mother. And I was…