Shattering - A Description of One Man's Nervous Breakdown

The actual breakdown had been building for over a year. Nay, for a lifetime. But by mid-2010, and though I didn't know it, all that my fragile system needed was one more small event and I would be pushed over the edge. And of course, it had to happen during a day that I was looking forward to; an event that I knew I would cherish. My daughter's wedding.

The final stressor came from an unlikely and unexpected source: my father. He had come over to Ireland for the wedding determined, despite his advancing years, to see his youngest great-granddaughter walk down the aisle. He stayed at the apartment with me, a place that I tentatively tried to call 'home'. We planned to hang around for a few days, chat and talk and laugh together as we always had, then head to Portugal to join the wedding.

The wedding. The thought of it made me extremely anxious. Because of the separation from my wife, I knew that it would be difficult. We would both be on edge, doing what we could to act normally. We would sit at the top table together, yet I knew that we would both feel embarrassed and anxious, hiding our anger from each other like enemies who had been forced to call a truce. And I knew that our children - the bride as well as my two other kids - would in all likelihood feel the same way. We would all do what we could to hide behind a thin veneer, doing our best to express joy rather than the confusion that we all felt.

As the days to the wedding approached, I felt emotionally worse and even more on edge. Feelings of anxiety and guilt knotted tight in a stomach and heart that was already full of dread. And then there was Dad...

On coming over, he seemed 'different' somehow: worried and distracted. Perhaps I was so upset and beside myself that I misinterpreted his signals. Dad is a sort-of 'man's man': usually unemotional. When life throws a curve at him, he can successfully detach himself. This quality has made him a brick of a fellow for all of my life, helping the family to cope when things became troublesome. The downside to this characteristic is that I rarely saw him give a display of emotion. But on this occasion, he unexpectedly did and I wasn't sure how to react or feel. Certainly, it confused me. Perhaps he was still grieving deeply for my mother who had passed away a few years previously? More to the point, perhaps he was upset at me and the separation from my wife of almost 30 years? My mind and heart turned when I thought about this. I became worried that he was disappointed in me. For all of my life, I had worked hard to make him proud of me. But perhaps my decision now was deemed irresponsible. My stomach turned to ice at the thought.

But we talked. For the first time in ages, he seemed teary eyed. I asked him if he would rather not go to the wedding? For a moment, he considered the idea as being the best one. Then rejected it again. But now I was concerned for him. I was worried. And that worry put me on a knife edge.

A few days later, we drove to Dublin Airport and the flight to Portugal and the wedding. There, Dad suddenly complained that he wasn't feeling well and he seemed afraid of the pending flight. I was shocked by this.  The man had been flying since the 1950s and it had never bothered him. Why now? He at last agreed to go but only if I could get a wheelchair to take him down to the gate. The request was highly uncharacteristic of him. I became even more concerned and troubled by his behavior.

When we arrived in Portugal, no one was there to greet us. Yet we had been told that a member of our family would be there to take us to our hotel. Instead, Dad and I had to rent a car. I ended up getting lost as we tried to find our way through the unfamiliar streets. Dad's own stress levels were elevated, which fueled my own. At last we found the hotel. Though technically still closed for the season, it had opened to provide rooms to some members of the wedding party. As it turned out, we were the first to arrive. We also learned that the other members of my family - my ex-wife, son, and daughter - would be staying miles away at a rented villa. I felt, incorrectly, that they were ashamed of me and dishonoring Dad. We would be on our own at least until other wedding guests arrived. My emotional pressure cooker began to boil with embarrassment and anger.

That first night continued to build toward a climax of frustration. We had arrived late and Dad couldn't get any food. Yet he needed something in his stomach because he suffered from diabetes. On going to our room, he didn't like it and I couldn't blame him. It was small, musty, and poorly maintained. My daughter had organized the room for us. In fact, she had insisted on it. And of course I would pay for it, as I would also pay for the entire wedding. Yet the room sucked and my anger grew.  With Dad complaining about the room, complaining about his health, complaining about sudden dizzy spells he was having, my emotional levels crept up yet another notch. We hit the sack about 1AM. I couldn't sleep, so worried and upset was I.

The next day, the day of the wedding rehearsal, dawned bright and cloudless. We were told to be at the church by mid-morning. I had risen early, unable to sleep, my brain a Ferris wheel of conflicting thoughts and emotions. Anger colliding with love. Hurt mixed with the hope for my daughter's joy. Dad and I climbed into our rental car. We would follow my daughter and her new mother-in-law, driving another, to the church.

We got lost. It's an easy thing to do, isn't it? Getting lost? Everyone does it at one time or another and it's usually no big deal at all. You get your bearings, maybe ask someone for directions, and eventually get to where you're going. Only to me, on this particular day, in that particular state-of-mind, it became a very, very bid deal indeed.

I don't remember a great deal about the next few hours. I remember, as another post reports, holding up the rehearsal by insisting that everyone wait for me while I had a cigarette. I remember seething with anger as I marched outside the church, talking to myself. I remember seeing my ex-wife eyeing me with concern and worry, not able to fathom what was wrong with me. I remember my daughter the bride pass by, bristling with annoyance at me. Eventually I got my ass back inside the Church. We ran through the rehearsal. We all climbed back into cars, driving back to our hotel, and for a breakfast for the entire party. And during the drive I remember becoming darker and darker inside. No longer thinking. Only feeling: anger, guilt, shame, embarrassment, vindictiveness, sorrow and sadness. All of these emotions simultaneously boiling in me. Seeking some sort of final release. Like Mount Vesuvius. And like the mountain, I was just about ready to explode.

Now back at the hotel, I climbed out of the car and right there, right in the parking lot, I had the breakdown.

A breakdown doesn't take place in one minute or 2 minutes or 5 or ten. It isn't one singularity marked by an almighty explosion. Instead, at least for me, it felt like a constantly changing, churning animal; a creature that lurked in me for months and that finally came to life, snarling and spitting as it sought some sort of recognition or release.

In my case it started with anger which I unjustly directed at my daughter's soon to be father-in-law. The man is a nice fellow. Before this I had met him on a number of occasions. We always got along quite well. We even played golf together.

The poor guy had no idea what was bearing down on him. My anger had turned to rage. The rage consumed me. I can't remember what I called the father-in-law. But whatever it was, it was horrible. I seem to remember that I blamed him for everything that I felt was wrong with the wedding. I would have blamed him for African poverty if it had come to mind. I ranted and raved. I wanted to fight him physically. This was coming from me! A guy who had never been in a physical fight at any time in his life! I'm sure that  my language was way, way, way past being foul. Rather than being a nice guy, I had turned into a monster. And  my bellowing had attracted the attention of the rest of the wedding party. They poured from the front door of the hotel, watching as the madman (me) roared, and for no apparent reason.

Of course, everyone - including my family and my father - thought I was drunk (not so, because I had not had a drink that day). They thought that I had sneaked off somehow, downed a few bottles of wine, and was now behaving like a madman. On some levels they were correct. My behavior was mad. But I had not been drinking. I was having a breakdown and no one knew it because 'breakdowns' can be easily misunderstood and misinterpreted.

As I said in a previous post, I wish I had had a heart attack. It would have been much easier and so much simpler to understand, diagnose, and treat.

My breakdown resulted in bizarre behavior. And bizarre, unacceptable behavior, has many consequences. What I didn't know was that this uncharacteristic outburst of inappropriate rage was only the start of many months of madness.

The Visions

The episode of rage is barely remembered by me. I only remember people's faces: their horror, anger, and confusion. I remember the father-in-law pleading with me to get a grip. I remember my soon-to-be son-in-law grasping me by an elbow, kindly pulling me back. I remember storming to my room, searching for Dad. Not finding him. Pouring myself a glass of wine. He coming into the room seeing me. I had poured fire on my family's thinking that I was merely drunk. Oh that I had been! It would have been much more simple.

The rage calmed. Emotionally, I dropped like a brick seeking balance, but falling, falling, falling much lower than that. I was in tears now. Embarrassed by my outburst. Knowing that I had let down everyone that I had loved. Right there at my daughter's wedding. I was suddenly overcome with tiredness. I lay down on the bed and slept.

But the sleep was one of disturbances. And when I woke, still half-asleep and still half-deranged, I experience my first vision. Of Christ. Crucified, bleeding, on a cross. His face filling the room. Years later, now, I realized that I was only projecting the emotional pain that I felt. I felt crucified. A victim that was going to pay fully for what I had done. And I was right.

I remember a knock on the door. My son-in-law looked in, his face full of worry and concern. I asked for my father but the poor fellow would not tell me that he had fled from me across town and to my daughter's rented villa, escaping from his now 'dangerous' son. 

I didn't realize it then, but my punishment for the breakdown was to be isolation.

My son-in-law, still standing in the room, began to pack my bag. He told me that they had organized another hotel just for me. Not understanding, still emotionally out-of-it, I was overjoyed that he was there to help me. He took me downstairs and poured me into his rental car. He drove me to a hotel on the outskirts of the city. Along the way, I asked where we were going. He wouldn't tell me. Then I realized what was happening. "My daughter doesn't want me at her wedding, does she?" He could only stare blankly at the traffic in front of him. 

And so it was that I had been dis-invited to my daughter's wedding. I would not walk her down the aisle. My father would do that. I would not give the father-of-the-bride speech. My ex-wife would do that. I would not dance with her. Her father-in-law would do that. My breakdown had destroyed what should have been one of the happiest days of my life, and that of my entire family. 

I was checked into the hotel. Another member of the wedding party had already paid the bill possibly overjoyed that the crazy father-of-the-bride was out of harm's way. My son-in-law left. I had no idea where I was. All I knew was that I was very, very alone. 

Later, I would find out that those suffering breakdown require a number of treatments. Most important of these is the support and love of their kith and kin. But my family did not know that I was having a breakdown and if they had they would not have read the rule book. Though I urgently needed love and support instead I was thrown away like an old toaster that had suddenly gone on the blink and filled the house with smoke. I was now a dangerous man and not to be trusted.

I took to my room. There, I was alone and so very frightened. For a moment, the rage again reared itself. The hurt and anger at my situation consumed me. I looked at my watch. I knew that at that moment my daughter was walking down the aisle. I took out their wedding gift which I still had with me. I smashed it against the wall along with my dreams for the day. And I broke down.

Things grow dark at that point and I can remember little. A few hours pass, and I'm standing outside on the small balcony frantically having a cigarette. I try to open the sliding glass door to go back into the room. I'm convinced that it's locked. I can see myself standing on that balcony all night. Suddenly, it becomes imperative that I get back into the room. I try to break the door down. I can't. I decide that I can climb down to the ground. As I remember, I was on the 4th floor. Climbing down was decidedly not a good idea. I remember climbing over the balcony's aluminium siding. In the process I damned well near killed myself. Had a slipped, my fall would only have been broken when I hit one of the cars far below me.

Somehow or other, I used my mobile phone to call hotel reception. I demanded someone to come up and let me back into my room. I demanded to see a doctor. I told them that I was dying - frankly and at that point I felt like I was dying. I called my wife next. She was at the wedding reception celebrating our daughter's wedding. I demanded that she leave and help me. That night, I was full of demands. And full of mental illness though no one knew it yet.

A porter came into the room. He opened the sliding glass door. As it turned out, the door was open. I was simply trying to open it incorrectly. In other words, my breakdown had robbed me of simple logic. My wife and eldest daughter arrived next. They were convinced that I was drunker than a coot. Nothing I could say would convince them otherwise. Then the doctor arrived. He examined me thoroughly. My blood pressure was somewhat elevated. That was all he could find. He prescribed a course of Xanex and left. So too did my wife and daughter. They stormed from the room thinking me only to be selfish and out of control. Out of control I agree with. Selfish? I'm not sure about that one. My breakdown had stripped me of much of what I was - of my moral compass. To say that I was not myself would be putting it mildly.

The rest of that night is a blank. The next day I somehow remember getting a taxi. I made my way back to the hotel. I still could not find Dad nor could I find out where he was. Those from the wedding party who were also staying at the hotel kept their distance, terrified of annoying the madman.

Except one woman, who - I like to think - guessed at what had happened. She simply said to me, "Forgive them and forgive yourself. It's not you who caused so much anguish." Of course, she was not inferring that other people were causing disruption. She simply meant that the animal that had emerged from my soul was not me. And it wasn't, and I still could not and would not recognize the monster that had taken control of me.

Somehow or other we all traveled home the next day, a day early because of me. Flights were re-arranged. Dad and my son had decided to travel with me feeling that I might be a danger to myself or others. Anything I did or said was suspect, no matter how innocent. If I opened my mouth to speak, if I made a complaint, if I decided to go to the toilet unexpectedly, they grew suspicious of my motives.

I made it back to the apartment. Dad chose to stay with my ex-wife rather than me, still stunned by my behavior, still fearful of what I might do next. They didn't realize that I was as confused as they were.

For my entire life I had worked hard to take care of my family, to love them, to help them, to be there for them. I had worked hard to make my father proud of me. In only a few hours, my breakdown had destroyed a lifetime of hard work and devotion.

And it was going to get worse.