I am a typical first-born child: responsible, achievement oriented, bossy (at least that's what my little brother says). I am a good manager, always planning and organizing, following through on every detail. My friends and family generally count on me to be reliable and hold it all together. Confession: sometimes I get tired. I fantasize about walking away from my responsibilities, letting someone else clean up the messes.
I used to work in a psychiatric hospital. I sometimes envied patients who left their lives behind for a little psychotic respite. Sure the doors were locked but the tranquilizers were plentiful and staff were placating. I remember one especially stressful period in my life. I visited a friend who was recovering from surgery in the hospital. I found myself wishing that I was the one in the bed. I wanted to do nothing but stare at the television while nurses wheeled in carts of jello and pain pills.
But somehow I always manage to hold it together, sometimes just barely. I suppose that one of the things that keeps me clinging to sanity is the illusion that other people need me. I grew up with the sense that I was holding the universe together; if my vigilance ever wavered I was convinced that the world would spin out of control. I now know that isn't true but old habits die hard.
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