Mercedes bends are the pain that comes from pressure.
It can happen to the best of us. You live in the suburbs, a dual income family, one of 1.5 kids. You were always slightly ahead of the curve, never drastically so however. You were bright, but not a savant. High school was slightly boring and unsubstantial, a meal you ate but never felt filled from. University was going to be it. You always knew you were going, and here it was. Far away. A change.
It looked like a blue jewel from the bottom. Iridescent and flowing.
It hits you when you walk in. A slight popping of the ears, a hint of nausea. You disregard it and move on, there are things to do. Carefully unpack. So many things to do. You didn't come here to fuck around. Put up a poster with a clever slogan, reflecting just how clever you are. Pushing a now ancient memory down, you walk away. You have things to do.
You tried to rise too fast.
It comes from a depth far greater than yours. It was always there, but you were able to ignore it. It was in the corner of your eye when you saw a new car, and knew one day you would have better. It appeared for a second when you carefully flipped through the pages of an ikea catalog, tastefully decorating a future loft. It was visible when you did not blink at sixty thousand dollars for a fraction of your life. The pain grows more intense the faster you rise.
Desperate to escape, you swim harder.
The mercedes bends are the pain you feel when you wonder why. When you get tears on Gucci glasses.
There is no cure I have found.