A friend of mine used to remark that the things I complained about were “uptown problems.” After two suicide attempts, he took a broader view than most. So, while sympathetic to my concerns, he occasionally reminded me that my life—both of our lives—were basically fine.
We had good jobs and roofs over our heads. Our kids were healthy, as were we. We moved in circles of high-functioning white-collar professionals. Almost everyone we knew had good health insurance and working cars, existing in a golden circle in which real crises were few and far between.
Did we still have personal problems? Yes, we did. But they were the problems of smart, capable people who paid their bills, fed their kids vegetables, and pampered their dogs. Uptown problems.
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