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By Eric Pape
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Wanted: 24 women to lie in bed, largely immobile, for 60 consecutive days as part of a test to simulate weightlessness on behalf of the European and French space agencies. Participants cannot sit or stand, and must undergo 40 days of preparation and follow-up. Sounds like some kind of techno-torture, right? Not to the 1,200 mostly French women who recently applied. Many of them were depressed applicants who saw two months in bed as appealing, especially if they'd be the center of a medical team's attentions. "They said, 'I'm really tired, can I come for a rest cure?' " recounts study coordinator Dr. Arnaud Beck. "We had to tell them 'It isn't like it's a vacation'."
The study wanna-bes are not the only French people anxious to check out. Several recent surveys show that life in France, of late, just doesn't have the joie de vivre that it used to. While this may not explain why French leaders can be such grumpy allies, it could provide a clue. Denis Tillinac, a close friend of President Jacques Chirac's and author of a just- published book called "The Venom of Melancholy," says the French are depressed because "people sense for the first time that the lives of their children will be worse than their own." National pride has taken a beating. Economic growth has slowed to a crawl. Unemployment remains anchored at about 10 percent. For the past two years the French had found a rare sense of solidarity in opposing the invasion of Iraq and the re-election of U.S. President George W. Bush--but they proved powerless to stop either one.
None of that means Gauls are on the verge of collective suicide, and their misery does have company in a few other downhearted European countries. But, says Dr. Matt Muijen, acting regional adviser for mental health for the World Health Organization, "French people consider themselves more miserable than Northern Europeans." According to a Eurobarometer mental-health survey, one French person in four says he or she is unhappy, and lacking in vitality and positive feelings. The French are about twice as likely to consider themselves unhappy as notoriously suicidal Scandinavians (but they are slightly less likely than those bummed-out Brits).
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In order to cope, the French consume far more medication per capita--mostly tranquilizers, anti-depressants and anti-anxiety drugs--than any other nation in Europe. French people sleep nearly half an hour more than Germans, who suffer harsher winters, according to a survey sponsored by the furniture company IKEA. And the French, long smug about American obesity, now stuff their faces with junk food. One third of the population is considered overweight. A recent poll conducted jointly with the World Health Organization showed that 11 percent of the French reported suffering a "depressive episode" in the two weeks before they were interviewed. (Two weeks!) An additional 12.8 percent said they felt generalized anxiety.
And now, winter's here to worsen the discontent. Romantics, philosophers, painters and photographers have all found elegant inspiration in the months when the sun rises as a vague gauzy light through a screen of clouds and disappears eight stingy hours later, but urban 9-to-5ers are less appreciative. "People walk out of their house while it is still dark, and they come home from work, and it is already night. The winter brings a bitter taste," says Paris-based Europe 2 radio journalist Celine Carriere. "I become more alone, more closed off."
Other European capitals have shorter days, but none has so many people packed into so little space. Paris is the most densely populated city in Europe. Grand boulevards may get some light, but the many small streets rarely see a glimmer when the winter sun hovers at the sky's edge. The result, according to neurophysiologist Damien Leger at the Hotel Dieu Hospital's sleep institute in Paris, is that people get less sunlight and suffer from "seasonally affected disorder"--yes, SAD. The condition affects about 10 percent of the French population, Leger explains as he leads a visitor on a tour of his clinic. Aware of the problem, the French government subsidizes light treatments aimed at brightening moods. Leger drops in on a dour-looking woman reading a paperback book in front of a large broad-spectrum light. It is her third session. "Feel any better?" he asks warmly. "Not at all," she replies sourly, and turns back to her book. The benefits often come later, Leger explains.
As for the weightlessness simulation experiment, the weak and dejected need not apply. It turns out they're systematically weeded out during physical and mental screenings. "Someone who is already quite fragile won't be chosen," Beck says. How depressing.
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