Sometimes we need a little help from Upper Management.

I'm in the middle of a melt-down.

This full story here was seen on Going Bridal's site. It seemed fitting.

Say you have a problem, something that is driving you crazy, something you need and want an answer to. Maybe the problem is romantic in nature, or has to do with your career. Maybe a decision needs to be reached that involves one of your kids, or your spouse, or an aged parent or pet. You feel like you really need to go left or right but you have no idea which way to turn. Maybe you feel just a little scared, maybe profoundly anxious; maybe you've even developed facial tics and early-stage Tourette's.

If you're at all like me, you're torn between really wanting to know what God's will is for you, and just desperately wanting this one thing to happen, this one thing to turn out this one particular way. And you keep feeling this, even though you remember the amazing scene at the end of "The Mission," where the warrior, played by Robert DeNiro, comes to see the priest, Jeremy Irons, to seek his blessing in the battle ahead, and the priest says, "If what you are about to do is God's will, then you don't need my blessing. And if it's not, then my blessing isn't going to help."

You remember that and still: You frantically want the guy to call; you want the project to be a huge success; you want the authorities to let your brother off the hook. Whatever. A small part of you, a crescent moon-shaped part of you, wants to be in alignment with God's will, because you have reason to believe that you are fucked unto the Lord if you somehow get your own will to prevail. But a louder part of you secretly believes that you alone know what the best possible outcome would be, for all parties concerned, even with a lifetime of evidence to the contrary. And you are prepared to use the sheer force of your personality and character to get it to happen.

It's a terrible feeling, isn't it — the self-will run riot? Here you long to inwardly resemble the Dalai Lama humming to himself, or Therese of Liseux at dawn Christmas morning in prayer. And instead, on the inside, you're feeling like Roy Cohn with the flu and bad coffee nerves. Or a dog with a chew toy. A crazy little dog.

A crazy, bad little dog with issues: That's where the self-will takes me. First there's all this terrible Jurassic roaring and posturing, the wrestling to the ground, the snapping and gnawing, the growling. And then there's an unearthly quiet, the isometric moment of silence just before the electrical storm. And then suddenly the toy is flung, tossed up and over the body, and great excitement pours forth like lava as the toy is searched for and captured again; and then dominated, chewed, ripped at, drooled over.

But eventually I am too tired to continue and my head has become too uninhabitable, and I realize I've been driving this rickety temperamental old bus of my mind around for too long. I've lost all sense of direction and am feeling confused and pissed off and bitter and resentful and nuts; but then finally, finally just tired. I begin to worry that I have had or am having a complete nervous breakdown, and that I am about to start weeping or barking and won't be able to stop. Sometimes I still look more or less okay on the outside — except for the tics, which can actually be pretty unsightly — but inside I'm feeling a little bit more like Ted Kaczynski than I like to. And I realize I'm just crazier than a shithouse rat; and that it's all hopeless. And that the sun is burning out.