The other day, I spent half an hour rummaging among my craft supplies and tools, because the Lunéville hook would be either somewhere with the beads and embroidery stuff, or in that jar that contains mostly knitting needles, along with a few other elongated tools.
And then I stood in the middle of the kitchen, with this somewhat strange instrument, wondering what I was up to. No train of thoughts went through my head, nothing along the lines of If I intended to embroider, there would be tulle and frame. I just stood there, puzzled. Mom came to save me saying that there's TV to watch, I went around the corner towards my chair and there it was, my yellow throw with edge unravelled. I sat down, fixed the edging - machine done with a hook thingy but I don't have that tiny crochet hooks - and finally, after half a year of whining at the thread, I fixed it.
There it is, I'm barely able to decide what I want to eat and whether I want to eat or why the steaming hell I'm standing by the kitchen counter. Normal people would go and get a sick leave but the charm of a family business is that there're various emotions and other crap intertwined with work and as it happens, work of any sort gets usually more complicated than fixing a sandwich.
The other day, after a thousandth last drop, after I found and fixed further of the same mistakes caused by people ignoring my orders and instructions, I just started crying. I've been saying it round and round for at least half a year that I lack people skills and facing the horde of semi-literate morons, I'm just lost. Because, having the brains of three dunces doesn't mean that I'm able to fruitfully communicate with one. Especially if said dunce doesn't want to. So, they've been lying to me, ignoring assigned tasks, fucking things up and when I said something, the response was Oh, really, I wouldn't have thought so.
When BossDad returned from his skiing trip, and there have been phonecalls when I was screaming that I'm totally not going to put up against this so he was warned, I just said I'm leaving. That the guy was hired as an executive something so he can manage half a day in the reception with ten guests around. The guy wouldn't manage a chicken coop, by the way, I caught him writing to clients once, when it was too late, and had to made an idiot of myself explaining that the cook, against all instructions or permissions, had an urge to act, and that while his writing skills, especially when it comes to punctuation, are horrendous but he cooks reasonably well. Which was not very exact description, and after having seen the pots overflowing with strange sauces, I'll never eat out. I mean, nothing wrong with sauces but when he told me that sauces are the bestest and the more the better and everyone likes a nice thick sauce in large amount, om nom nom, I said 'xcuse me, I hate sauces of this sort you describe, sauce is a thing that comes by spoonfuls at max, and not necessary with everything. Then I ordered him to cook things that don't float in goop and was halfway ignored. Yeah, and he can't calculate a price of a meal, excellent if someone is to manage a kitchen. Semi-literate morons, I say.
So, since dear staff decided to ignore me, I guessed that the jerk of a receptionist won't be working on Saturday, I hung around, fixed his further fuckups, cried, threw some beer glasses and other things around, cried more, BossDad said to come in the morning so at 2 pm he appeared, I cried more, yelled at him that everyone should be shot in their knees, with particular attention to some people and that I want the fuck get out of there. After he asked who will be in the reception in the evening, I said that I don't care. I told The Guy - can't call him a chef as he can't cook beforehand so this was a bit of the show, bleeding pure adrenalin doesn't mean that I can't make a better point.
Haven't really talked to BossDad since. Actually, I've been avoiding him like plague. I'm probably acting silly but I just can't go on. I'm a sociophobe and I've had problems with strangers, phone calls, too many people in too little time... so no way I'm calling anyone I haven't encountered in person. Don't care who will do it, I won't.
I always fondly recall someone back at the Arts department claiming: Them managers. What an easy life full of fun. They drive their fat capitalist asses in Mercedeses and make phone calls all the time. Phew.
I don't know how to recognize nervous breakdown but I suspect that throwing things around and not caring is pretty close.