The Sorry Syndrome

Yes, I did it again.  I’m posting this a day late, even though I wrote it last night.  You’ll see why if you read more.  And by the way, let me just say how sorry I am…

The Sorry Syndrome

 

One of my friends and I got to talking during a particularly demanding shoot and discovered that when we got fatigued, really tired, and sleep-deprived, an absolutely real physiological phenomenon occurred that was probably the result of changes in our brain chemistry.  We would begin to feel sorry for ourselves.  For no good reason.  However, our altered brains would make up any number of reasons to feel sorry for ourselves that seemed fitting, and after the reasons were made up, anger would follow.

It explained so much.

We dubbed it the Sorry Syndrome, and someday it will go down in medical history as a legitimate reaction to the stress of movie making or any kind of on set work.  I believe other professions may be at risk, as well, so do take heed and pay attention to this important medical advisory.

One example of the Sorry Syndrome occurred during the shooting of an abysmally low budget feature where I was the set decorator.  The prop master was a first-timer to the business, and was quickly sinking during the first day of shooting, so I helped her out, only to incur the wrath of the production designer, who yelled at me to get on to the next set and let the prop master do her job.

I hadn’t slept more than five hours a night for the entire two allotted weeks of preproduction (I told you this was low budget, right?), so I was at extreme risk of the Sorry Syndrome when the blow-up happened, and sure enough, on the drive to the next set, I got sorrier and sorrier for myself, thinking first that I was too good for this stupid production, and too experienced to take this kind of criticism (although I did take it and took great pains to appear unfazed at the moment of the yelling).

Next, I thought about how life was passing me by and nothing good ever happened to me, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get into the shape I was in just ten years ago, and what the hell was the point, anyway, because my life was on the downhill slide to obscurity and failure—I mean look at this hideous, shoddy feature I was working on.

Even this car I was driving was shoddy, a disintegrating rattletrap. I didn’t have the money to buy anything else, and this tottering old truck was nearly twenty years old, and what had I been doing with my life that twenty years could go by and my  truck was still running but I was stuck in Failureville forever, getting older and more beat up, just like my truck?

Yes, I was feeling so very, very sorry for myself.  At this point, tears seem like a good idea, but I feel anger is stronger, somehow, when the Sorry Syndrome hits, and I usually prefer to snarl enraged profanities at the top of my lungs into the empty air (as long as nobody else will hear me cursing, or even see me cursing, just in case they can read lips).  So I do that for awhile, finally coming to the conclusion that nothing I do will ever change the hell-bound, relentless treadmill of my life.

But then, eventually, I finally get to sleep for a blessed, uninterrupted-by-early-call-time, deep, dreamful twelve hours.  And lo and behold, all those reasons to feel sorry for myself that seemed so incredibly obvious the day before have melted away under the sunlight of the new day, and my sanity is restored.  Until the next time during that show or the next when once again I am sleep-deprived and unbearably exhausted.

Before I started working on set, with the shooting crew, I was a drone in a set shop, and occasionally the real people from whatever film we were servicing would come through to look over our work and would often discuss their show.  And often the discussions would erupt into yelling and screaming, and even crying.  All of us drones would look at each other, mortified.  What was wrong with these people?  They were cursing each other out over the draperies, for heaven’s sake!

Now I know what was wrong.  Those poor people had had little or no sleep for weeks or even months, and they had been taken over by the Sorry Syndrome.   They knew not what they did.  At least, not at the time.  But later, they would recall every single awful moment. 

The odd thing about the Sorry Syndrome is that you never see it coming or even realize what’s happening to you (again) until it’s over and you’ve had your sleep.  Then the shock of it hits you like a cold wet towel snap to the face: I succumbed to the Sorry Syndrome again, didn’t I?  It must be like looking back at a time when, say, you were possessed by demons. You tremble with shame and embarrassment, asking yourself: “What did I do this time?  Did I burn all my bridges?  Have I completely blown it?  What got into me?”

The Sorry Syndrome is what got into you.

Here’s why the recognition of this syndrome is so important: as I said before, it explains so much.  The howling with self-pity, the self-righteous anger, the need to put your sorry self out there by word and deed, in every way bemoaning, why me? Why, why, why me?  I believe that every human being, not just those in the film business, are being victimized (by themselves, ironically), overcome by the Sorry Syndrome when they don’t get enough sleep.  Get enough sleep—that’s all it takes to get rid of it.  Just get enough sleep everyone.

How many world leaders out there get enough sleep? How many right now are victims of the Sorry Syndrome?

How many crying jags, arguments, letters of ill will, blow-ups, road rage, cutting of diplomatic ties, killing sprees and declarations of war are simply the results of the Sorry Syndrome?  This syndrome, may, in fact, be the ubiquitous, unseen but deadly curse of mankind.  Who ever said we could and should get along on five or six hours of sleep?  Who has decided that we should man up and deal with life by running constantly on a sleep deficit?

I tell you, I am disgusted, I am sick of this demand by society or whoever, that we should put sleep at the bottom of the list of life’s priorities.  It’s just wrong and I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.  I can’t live like this, constantly zombified by my lack of REM sleep.  It’s making my life a hell on earth, I tell you!  Why can’t I just get a job that gives me a decent turnaround?  Why me? Why, why, why me?

Uh oh. Oh no.  This is week number six of five hours a night of sleep.  It’s happened again!  I’m getting sorrier by the keystroke as I type this.  I’m going to bed.  I may get a full six hours in if I fall asleep in the next three minutes…