Nervous Breakdown
Seems like nobody has nervous breakdowns anymore, which is too bad, because I think I could really go for one about now.
Used to be you’d hear about a successful man, usually, but sometimes a woman, who would just go off and crack up, the explanation being his or her nerves were shattered. One minute, they’re a high-powered advertising executive or perfect suburban housewife, the next, they’re cowering in a corner, freaked out by their shoes.
Now, maybe some of these breakdowns were a euphemism for something else—a stint in rehab, maybe recovery from an illegal abortion—but at least some were what they claimed to be: somebody succumbing to the responsibilities of day-to-day living and not being able to take it anymore.
In my idealized version, the person having the breakdown is whisked away by the men in white coats to a soothing sanitarium with pale green walls, starched sheets, and sprays of callalilies everywhere. There, you get to cut out paper dolls strung together by the arms and legs until, miraculously, some months later, you return to the world, just a tiny bit fragile-looking, but with a new gleam in your eye and not only that, 10 pounds lighter.
Nobody mentions your time away, or if they do it’s in hushed tones and veiled references. You’re said to have “been in the mountains,” or “gone off to take the waters” or some such thing. Your old position is still waiting for you, but with none of the pressures associated with it and no one looks askance when you go out for long lunches and come back smelling slightly of gin.
And maybe you’re no longer on the fast track to success, but that’s no matter; you get to be the fellow in the corner office who reads manuscripts all day long and reports directly to the President on matters of vague importance.
That’s what I’d like.
And man, it’s only the first day of the quarter.
Used to be you’d hear about a successful man, usually, but sometimes a woman, who would just go off and crack up, the explanation being his or her nerves were shattered. One minute, they’re a high-powered advertising executive or perfect suburban housewife, the next, they’re cowering in a corner, freaked out by their shoes.
Now, maybe some of these breakdowns were a euphemism for something else—a stint in rehab, maybe recovery from an illegal abortion—but at least some were what they claimed to be: somebody succumbing to the responsibilities of day-to-day living and not being able to take it anymore.
In my idealized version, the person having the breakdown is whisked away by the men in white coats to a soothing sanitarium with pale green walls, starched sheets, and sprays of callalilies everywhere. There, you get to cut out paper dolls strung together by the arms and legs until, miraculously, some months later, you return to the world, just a tiny bit fragile-looking, but with a new gleam in your eye and not only that, 10 pounds lighter.
Nobody mentions your time away, or if they do it’s in hushed tones and veiled references. You’re said to have “been in the mountains,” or “gone off to take the waters” or some such thing. Your old position is still waiting for you, but with none of the pressures associated with it and no one looks askance when you go out for long lunches and come back smelling slightly of gin.
And maybe you’re no longer on the fast track to success, but that’s no matter; you get to be the fellow in the corner office who reads manuscripts all day long and reports directly to the President on matters of vague importance.
That’s what I’d like.
And man, it’s only the first day of the quarter.
posted by Professor Dave at 6:13 PM
2 Comments:
Nowadays I think they are called panic attacks, you take a prescription, and head back to work. Efficient, but kinda lame.
fuck yeah.
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