BREAKDOWN

When I was younger, sadder, skinnier, and more foolish, an older, wiser college professor sat me down to ask why I had disappeared. It was a blindingly sunny day, the air was still, and one of the few people I respected was questioning my self-destructive behavior. After avoiding him for weeks, we sat in a small garden of pink flowers.

I was completely incapable of explaining myself.

It was my last semester. I was twenty-five. I had stopped going to classes and started sitting on my apartment's wooden floor. I stared at the window. I stared at the walls. Hours zoomed by. Hours crept by. I screened calls, ventured out at dusk, watched hot dog vendors push their carts away. Sunsets were tragic. Showers were overwhelming.

Turning the page of a magazine? Too much.

These paralyzing waves of sadness were not new. They had threatened to drown me for years, but always dumped me, last minute, on a needle-strewn beach. I'd learned, when feeling "well," to work extra hard and be the most model of students. That way if (when?) the inevitable "blues" came, I wouldn't be immediately dismissed as a flake.

As we sat in a garden of pink flowers, I had no idea how to say "I think I'm crazy."
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