It Happened to Me: I Had a Mental Breakdown at My First Suburban Block Party

But I hadn’t jumped in the lake with my clothes on for a whole year!

I have some oldest-daughter control issues.

I heard about the annual October-fest-style party on our new block before we even moved here. “Your street has the best block party!” someone in the local moms' Facebook group told me.

This was in June 2023, and I was in our sublet in Brooklyn, searching for future friends in our future suburb of Chicago. 

A few weeks later, my family arrived in this quaint little place, followed by our ginormous moving truck with a New York Yankees logo splashed across it. We chose our new town for the progressive education in the schools, the public access to nature (beaches, forest preserves, lagoons, hiking trails), and to be close to family. (My family. I grew up around here.) 

I was also packing a full load of New Yorker-level “I didn’t come here to make friends” attitude. I told myself, “I’m not going to be fake or whatever to try and impress you perfect-looking people.” My Brooklyn friends rolled their eyes. “Of course, you're going to make friends,” they told me. I mean, I guess I am kinda fun? 

But I was skeptical about connecting to anyone in this place. I was simultaneously intimidated by and judgey of the moms who got dressed up for pick up, had their hair blown out always, and smiled as they loaded their kids in and out of minivans. My Brooklyn crew was a little more, “We wear joggers and no makeup to pick up and then drag our screaming kids down the dirty sidewalks while talking shit about our boss/husband/in-laws/whatever person is bothering us today.”

During that first summer, I met a few of my new neighbors. I was surprised to find they were pretty cool and down to earth — far from the prim and primped snobs I’d imagined. I wanted to connect with them, but, I was so bone tired from packing, moving, and unpacking twice in six months (I even fell ill with exhaustion Ballerina Farm style) that I wasn’t much fun to be around.

The other side says HOME OF THE NEW YORK YANKEES! in the most unsubtle way possible.

Summer also ushered in a series of humiliating dumpster fires — my son telling a lovely, well-connected mom that he got “kicked in the balls” at tennis camp (they don’t say “balls” here) [I know the town Corynne is in, and she’s right, they don’t. -Charlie], me jumping into Lake Michigan in front of all the townspeople because I thought our daughter was drowning (she may or may not have been, depends on who you ask) and then finding out after it was way too late that the shirt I wore to the school meet-and-greet was totally see-through. I was ready to crawl into bed, never to be seen again. 

Yet, one year later, I was dead set on attending My First Suburban Block Party™.

This time, I felt confident. I hadn’t jumped in the lake with my clothes on for a whole year! And my kids were making real friends. Maybe I was, too? 

Fitting in is not something that has ever come easily to me. Ever. In high school, I once got a note in my locker from a friend saying she couldn’t talk to me anymore because a popular girl thought I was a loser. I was always the weird kid. The crying kid, the dysregulated kid, the annoying kid. Then I was the weird adult, the dysregulated adult, the crying adult. The annoying “I have a question in a meeting” adult. Jane knows. [I do. And I love you for it. -Jane]

34 years of therapy have diagnosed me as “a highly sensitive person with social anxiety.”  But my biggest problem (and believe, me there are very, very fucking many of them) is that I crave social connection. And also everything about being human hurts so much. I am a walking raw nerve who loves to party but gets super overwhelmed in large crowds. To top it all off, I’m a Capricorn. (I’m convinced that if I were a Libra, I would be the most beloved human on Earth, but a Libra would never even think that, let alone write it down.)

I also have some oldest-daughter control issues. If you’re reading this, and have ever been to a birthday party that includes both me and a piñata, then you know what I’m talking about. I will start manning that piñata situation. It can rub people the wrong way.

But when it came time for the big day, this Cap was feeling good. I had a plan to mitigate my massive crowd anxiety: I would put a rolling wine cart on our driveway, set up some chairs with our neighbors, and let the block party come to us. Boom. Cool and fun Corynne is heeeere. 

Then, the night before the party, one of my neighbors (I fully adore her and will tell anyone who will listen how she is the nicest human to have ever lived) sort of asked and sort of told us very sweetly, “We’re thinking we’ll put the bounce house in front of your driveway. Do you have an outdoor outlet?” Something about extension cord lengths and it being too far away from the food last year, I don’t know. My mind was already humming with this is not the plan.

“Um, isn’t that going to be a really high electric bill?” I tried to ask, looking over at my husband, hoping he would tell her “no” since my entire life depended on it. She assured us it wouldn’t cost much. That everyone had taken turns hosting the bounce house. My husband said it wouldn’t be a problem. 

HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. HAHAHAHAHA. HA.

Behold the bounce house in question. Looks fun, right?

The next day, I noticed everyone setting up My First Suburban Block Party™ without me. “Can I help?” I asked, worming my way over. “We’ve got it!” they chorused. I’m still not sure if I was being intentionally excluded or if people around here are just really A-Type (more A-Type than me?!) and not good at accepting help. But the high school clique trauma was brewing.

“Hey, real quick, maybe we can move that fuckin’ bounce house down the street?” I asked, practically begging this time.

“Nope!”