The Anxious Generation

The music in the restaurant is barely audible. Their faces are illuminated by the candle on the center of the table. They are on their second date. The young man, a twentysomething accountant, is nervous. He is taking unnecessary gulps of water and looking around.

“I have this condition,” he says.

She looks nervous. “What type of condition?”

“I, uh, take these pills,” he says as he takes out three small bottles with “Xanax,” “Paxil” and “Lithium” typed on the labels.

She fondles the bottles and smiles. “Oh, I thought you had something I should be worried about. This is no big deal; I have some like these at home too.”

What is going on here? Since when has our declining emotional state become dinner conversation and second-date material?

It is hard to say when exactly the conversation switched from “Wanna go steady?” to “Which antidepressant are you on?” Maybe it was about the time when Mom stopped greeting us at the door with Rice-Krispies Treats and an apron. Now it seems that Mom has her head in the medicine cabinet and divorce papers in her hand. Her son is somewhere on the “Jerry Springer” show blaming his cross-dressing on her.

But this is not about blame. It is not about “my-family-is-dysfunctional-therefore-I-am-the-way-I-am.” It is about change. No longer is one entering her 20s with a newborn on the hip and a casserole in the oven, but rather a past-due school loan in one hand and a Big Mac in the other. The shoe and the thimble in Monopoly have been replaced with little pills that help us along to Boardwalk.

To what can we attribute this change in the game board?

Anxiety.

Anxiety about life-threatening diseases, dead-end jobs and diminishing funds. Anxiety about obtaining a college degree, which has now become a formality as well as a necessity. It no longer matters what the degree is in but whether one is obtained.

What happened to loving our jobs? What happened to finding ourselves?

There is no room for Jack Kerouacs of the ‘90s. There is no one defining voice such as that of the Beat Generation. There is no time to take it on the road here. There is only time for doctors with magic pills that treat the symptoms. We have given up on a cure.

A young woman who has just recently joined the real world and received her first real job is sitting face to face with a psychiatrist.

“I just don’t understand myself anymore. I eat very little, and I cry all the time. I feel so empty,” she says.

“I’m sorry, dear, but I really don’t feel that there is anything I can do to help unless you resolve to take the medication.”

“I really don’t want to have to depend on that. I want to feel as if I am in control. I was taught that drug addiction is wrong, even if it is a socially acceptable drug.”

“Sweetheart, if you were a diabetic and had to depend on insulin, what would be the difference?” asks the psychiatrist, who is fiftysomething and soft-spoken.

“I think there is a huge difference. Can’t you help me otherwise?” The young woman is now crying with frustration.

“I’m sorry, dear, no I can’t.”

Flash back to the couple in the restaurant. The attention is turned to the young woman.

“I have been seeing my therapist since I was 13. We refer to each other on a first-name basis. I send him cards over the holidays, and he buys me presents on my birthday. He has even been to my house on Thanksgiving. I can’t imagine the day when I don’t have to see him anymore.”

There is a long pause. She smiles and says, “I don’t see that happening, though.”

Now they are both laughing. To them this is a joke. But it’s not really funny. Serious issues have been made into casual conversation. Where does this leave us as a generation?

Pass the Prozac, please.