Venting: Like a volcano, only not as much fun

I’ve been feeling overwhelmed and exhausted lately, and it’s not a bad idea to take a moment and examine why. Or maybe it is. If I knew for sure, I’d be making a lot more money as a therapist.
Earlier this week, while at a doctor’s office in Fort Wayne, I learned my father fell and broke a couple of ribs. (Then we walked outside to hear tornado sirens going off, so—long day.) My family and friends have had a series of illnesses/accidents lately. We were, after all, at a doctor’s office.
Oh, on an unrelated note, my garage door fell on me again. Long story.
That puts it in perspective, because everything else is pretty minor. It’s just been an accumulation, plus I tend to get tired and down when the weather turns cooler and gloomy and when my chronic back pain acts up.
A lot is writing related: I’ve been sending eight different story submissions out to agents and editors, and the constant flow of rejection letters was starting to get to me. I just finished the third polishing of my latest novel, and being done with a big project (even if only temporarily done) can leave a writer with a lost feeling. Also, still not a big fan of selling myself—but I’ve got books, and you need to buy ‘em.
So I think it’s just that perfect storm of little things accumulating, along with some sleep and digestive issues. (Cause, or effect?) Oh, and pain. Did I mention the garage door?
A lot of people have gone through way worse than us, and if that thought doesn’t help … there’s always chocolate. Either way, I don’t plan to vent often, as I seem to have developed a reputation as the funny guy. I think I prefer that to being the complaining guy.