Sometimes it's not the quality of the disasters that counts, but the quantity.
Old boyfriends moving away shouldn't pose too much of a problem. But the two most recent leaving within as many months of each other, coming just before and after your company threatens to go belly-up for the second time in six months (and is then miraculously salvaged at the last minute), followed by an abortion you didn't want to have, the near-loss of the friend you didn't want to have it with (who may still be lost for all you know), and then the suicide of someone close enough to be your brother, and you have the kind of time period that couldn't even be made ironic much less funny with the sappiest, happiest of Hollywood tack-on endings.
I should've gone home and had my grandma bake me cookies. I should've driven into the desert and waited for enlightenment. I should've at least cried. Instead, I went back to work.