Grand Mal

It was probably a little bit irrational to believe that I could plan my own nervous breakdown. It just doesn't really work like that. But I had a plan. It went like this... I would be moving through my regular life as a behavior specialist with a wife, a mortgage, car payment, unbreakable cell phone contract, and two small and spirited children - the stress mounting. The pressure would gradually build until somebody would say or do something that was too much. The scale would tip, the tension snap that little bit of brain matter that keeps me tethered to something that looks a little like sanity.

Then, according to my plan, I would simply get in my car (the Mystery Machine - so named by my daughter) and drive somewhere. I am not entirely certain where I would go, but it would be somewhere pretty. If the nervous breakdown were a minor, petit mal, style breakdown, I might not go too far. Maybe someplace like Krause Springs. For a grand mal breakdown I would consider Ruidosa, New Mexico. Wherever the car took me, I would find a small body of water. In New Mexico this would probably be one of those gorgeous little mountain streams. I'm sure they have one somewhere around there. If the weather was nice, I would probably disrobe. I would wade into the water and stand there for a long, long time. I don't know how long. I would get cold, but thanks to my manatee like physique, I would be spared from hypothermia. After a swim and a good think I would find a small hotel, drink a dozen or so beers, and sleep until they came to bring me home. People at work would donate a few personal days so that I could convalesce and still be able to pay the mortgage. Jenn and the girls would forgive me - they kind of saw it coming. Nobody would get hurt, a guilt free nervous breakdown. More of a spontaneous solo vacation really.

I actually had a sort of close call in late September. I remember sitting on McCarty Lane, my car hastily pulled over, mind racing, hands shaking. I checked the tank. It was pretty full, enough to go a long way without having to stop for gas. As a courtesy, I called my boss to let her know what was happening. I told her that I would try to keep the manifestations of my nervous breakdown under control until 3:30 (they kind of turn a blind eye to folks clocking out a little early on Fridays). I don't know how she talked me down. She is pretty good at that sort of thing.

When I told my brother that I was cracking up, he took it very seriously. When he heard I had a plan, he seemed even more concerned and came to the house. It is probably not insignificant to this story that he ended his public school teaching career by telling his assistant principal that he was going to "kick his ass". John knew I needed a better plan B than standing naked in a trout stream until the madness passed. Never a lover of team sports (thus the "I'm going to kick your ass, principal" statement), I was surprised when he agreed to accompany me to a Dynamo soccer game. I think he was trying to gauge my condition as much as offer practical suggestions.

I pulled it together, a little. Months passed in a blur. There were car rides, a plane ride, another plane, one final plane ride, and a van ride to a strange apartment in a strange place - what we dismissively call a 'geographic fix' in the world of special education. And now climbing into a taxi cab, I don't know the right words in Arabic to make the proper request. I mumble, "Nile, please" and reach down, unbuttoning my shirt, loosening the buckle on my belt...