The term “nervous breakdown” has different connotations to different people. When I had one, I didn’t even recognize it as such, it was so different than what I thought one would look like. There wasn’t any screaming or wailing or illicit drug use. I didn’t become suicidal, and didn’t want to die until several months after the initial event. I know that every person’s experience is different but the only story I can tell is mine, so I thought I might clarify what a nervous breakdown is like, from my own singular perspective. 

It started with a bad decision. I was told by my parents that instead of pursuing a different plan of action in getting my grandmother moved from Illinois to Oklahoma, they were putting it off until I could spend two weeks alone with my physically disabled mother, caring for her while my husband helped Dad with the actual move.  My response, 2000 miles away, was to curl into a ball and start wailing because the burden of it felt absolutely overwhelming. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t overwhelmed by giving physical care. I was undone by something totally different and difficult to quantify.  I couldn’t even define it for myself, so it felt outside my rights to refuse to do as they wished. I love my parents. I’ve always wanted to make them happy (which statement may give some clue to the source of my issues).  It may also help to know that I am the only child of two people whose siblings had both died young, so we’ve always been a small, tightly knit clan. 

I should’ve been more honest from the beginning. Instead I was obedient as usual.  I arrived a day early so I could spend a bit of time with a friend, brought running clothes so I could exercise, and even borrowed some baby bunnies for some fuzzy comfort. I felt like I had put as many coping devices in place as possible. 

The strangest thing is that while I was there, nothing very eventful happened. My mother is a generally kind and submissive person, and our only issues were quiet ones. She didn’t like that I went running because it meant time away from her, although she never did anything significant to prevent it. There were some moments during which I was disappointed not to be able to share myself with her, my struggles and deep thoughts, because her own manner of coping requires a certain level of superficiality. In the end, I think what weighed on me most was the knowledge that I literally meant everything to her. I was her one true human connection in the world, her source of security and joy. My father was never emotionally available to her when I was young, and I became a sort of emotional stand-in for him. There are more dynamics but I have no desire to put my parents’ failings onstage. I merely mention them as context for my reactions. They are well-intentioned people who had painful childhoods, did the best they could, but because they’d never faced their own demons were unempowered to prevent the creation of an emotionally abusive household. 

Every day I was there I could feel the burden of my parents’ happiness and security growing heavier, but I put on my game face and fought through to what I thought was the end.  I was taught to honor my parents. I’d learned not to make waves with them in order to survive, and those childhood patterns are incredibly difficult to break.  I didn’t have a therapist at that time to call and ask for advice. Perhaps if I’d been able to come home when I expected there would’ve been less fallout. Then again, perhaps not.  I probably would’ve been left alone at home while Keith worked, and as things worked out, I had more support than I ever could’ve anticipated. 

During the last couple days of our stay, during which Keith had originally planned to visit his family and a client in a neighboring city while I stayed with my own parents, things went awry.  My grandmother fell, and although she ended up being fine, it shook everyone up and delayed getting her apartment put together.  In the end I realized that I would have to stay for an extra week, even while I knew I couldn’t.  I felt the mask of my strength melting away and there was no outlet for my pent up emotions. In desperation I called my dear childhood friend and asked if I could stay with her for the extra week, and it was a matter of my salvation that she accepted me with open arms. She moved one of her girls into her own room and made up a bed while Keith and I pretended to say goodbye to my parents at the airport. Then Keith dropped me off at her house and went to take care of business. 

The friend with whom I stayed lives on a lovely little farm. They’d been her baby bunnies I’d borrowed, but she also cared for a plethora of rescued cats, several dogs, chickens, ducks and pigs. She’d also been through her own hard times, becoming a widow before the age of 40. The last time I’d stayed there I’d gone to be with her following her husband’s death. This time the tables were turned. 

Providentially, her adopted brother from California happened to be visiting at the same time. He has the heart of a healer, is a trained masseuse and is well-informed on natural health remedies. Perhaps more than anything, he has a soothing presence that was comforting and stabilizing. 

I don’t actually remember what happened at first when I got there. We probably talked, and then her brother (we’ll call him David) gave me a massage. I curled up on the bed afterward and laid there in the dark, but not for long. I was surprised to discover that I didn’t really want to be alone. I didn’t want to have to talk, but I wanted to have people around me. That was one of the miracles of the situation. No one there expected anything from me or was weirded out by the fact that I spent hours at a time curled up silently here or there, sometimes at someone’s feet. They’d go to the feed store and take me with them, or go with me for a walk, but I basically was allowed to simply exist. All of my energy had been spent, and I was entirely empty.  There were many hugs and shoulder rubs, and the oldest daughter kept bringing me baby bunnies to comfort me. 

One day David asked me if I was ready to give back to my parents the keys to their lives. I said “yes” and he walked me through an utterly spiritual visualization exercise in which I did so. I won’t give the details here, but I will tell you that it was profound, and one of the reasons I was able to continue breathing. 

“What?” You may ask. “No hysteria?  That doesn’t qualify as a nervous breakdown.”  Oh, my friend, it most certainly did. My body stopped digesting properly. I was constipated for five days and so I stopped eating. I didn’t really want food anyway. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was having a conversation in the kitchen with David one night and remember taking a deep breath and then…nothing. Fortunately he caught me because there were sharp corners everywhere. I just remember hearing a disembodied voice that sounded vaguely familiar, urgently calling for my friend. She’d already gone to bed but came back out, and I could hear them talking about me.
“She just wilted,” he said.
They tried to figure out what to do, and managed to get me to the bed. David asked me questions, and my answers were slurred. I could use my whole mouth but there simply wasn’t enough energy to form clear consonants. He took my pulse in both wrists; they put my feet up. I gradually came back around to thinking clearly, and we finally decided I should just go to bed. David won eternal citizenship in my heart by sleeping on a mattress on the floor next to me because I was scared. I woke up the next morning, shivering. It was July in Oklahoma and I was freezing cold. They immediately set to work making me food that wouldn’t clog up my works any further. I’ve got to say, that was the best oatmeal I’ve ever eaten in my life. The long and the short of it is that they cared for me. They nursed me, and didn’t freak out that I was in bad shape. I’ve rarely experienced that kind of unconditional acceptance and love. It was this compassion and affection that kept me from sliding further into the abyss, and I am fully aware of how fortunate I am. 

Months later the head of my department saw me at a meeting and said to herself, “Oh, dear!  We need to get her some support!”  I still had little life in my face, my steps, my shaking fingertips. 

So, what did having a breakdown feel like?  I don’t know about others’ experiences, but for me it felt like a complete absence of resources, as though the well from which I daily draw all my abilities and connections with the world, were utterly depleted. Forget creativity!  I had just barely enough energy to move air in and out of my lungs. The only energy I did have was frenetic and anxious, robbing me of sleep even when I was completely exhausted. 

It’s been a long road back. Some things that were lost haven’t yet returned. I lost some degree of manual dexterity. I lost the motivation to cook, and now I go by the grocery store on the way home and buy salads or salmon and roasted vegetables. I’m still not high on energy and I had to start taking anti-anxiety meds. But here’s something it might be helpful to know. I didn’t become stupid or oblivious to the effect I was having on others. I didn’t drool into a cup or become a completely different person than I was before. My essential “self ness” remained the same, but muted as though I were reaching out from a long distance. As I mentioned, I often wanted to be around safe, mellow people who wouldn’t make a big deal of how pale my life was. 

I guess I’m sharing this mostly because I don’t think a lot of people have felt comfortable being vulnerable about anything remotely related to mental illness. There’s still a stigma attached to it, and it’s not that I’m astoundingly courageous. I just want to be part of bringing more transparency to topics like this one. I know no other way to make progress against prejudice and fear. If you know someone who’s going through a hard time emotionally, whether due to loss or hardship or mental illness, try to imagine yourself in their shoes. I know that’s trite, but it still holds true. If you were 40 years old, had been raised as an only child in an emotionally abusive environment, had never learned any tools for drawing healthy boundaries, and felt completely responsible for your ailing parents’ security and happiness, how would you respond?  My situation was further complicated by my parents’ strict religious teachings, and the fact that not a single other person on earth ever witnessed the darker side of my family experience. My parents were well mannered and highly respected. 

I’ve wished sometimes that I were more rebellious. If I’d stood up earlier and defied them, maybe my life would’ve been easier. None of that matters, though. What matters is where I go from here. How do I take back my life?  How do I move forward, caring for these people who will almost certainly maintain the same behavior, and change my responses to them?  How do I allow this experience to make me a better person, with more empathy, more voice, more permission to be human?  These are the questions I face today. What about you?