Should students be allowed to use their phones during school? The answer seems like it should obviously be no. But apparently this is has become a difficult subject for school districts to grapple with. Across the country, school boards and administrators recognize that phones distract students from learning, diminish attention spans and affect students’ mental health. But few have the gumption to remove personal devices entirely from schools.
What’s your poison? All of the greatest minds have one. Freud loved cocaine, Charles Dickens dabbled with opium, Steve Jobs once claimed that LSD was “one of the two or three most important things I have done in life.” It turns out that Elon Musk’s drug of choice is ketamine, a controlled substance usually reserved for tranquilizing horses. Elon Musk “microdoses” the substance, according to the Wall Street Journal. “The CEO has told people he microdoses ketamine for depression, and he also takes full doses of ketamine at parties, according to the people who have witnessed his drug use and others who have direct knowledge of it,” the report says.
Maybe it’s because I grew up during the “stranger danger” milk carton kid era (for those too young to know what I’m talking about, milk cartons were the original Amber Alert) or because of the burgeoning twenty-four-hour news cycle — or maybe I was just born neurotic — but I became convinced as a child that I was going to end up getting murdered by my bus driver in a schoolbus lot on the outskirts of town. Every morning, I’d ask my mom no fewer than a hundred times if she was going to be there when I got off the bus. My fear seemed irrational for a seven-year-old, but I was obsessed.
I’m cruising on an uncongested stretch of Interstate 80 when I see an eighteen-wheeler plodding up the hill ahead. I tap my turn signal, glance at my blind spot and coast smoothly into the passing lane. I’m gearing up my vocals for the “got runned over by a damned old trainnnn!” line of David Allan Coe’s song, playing on the radio, when I’m spooked out of my aria by a mid-size SUV barreling down on my bumper like a furious Pamplona bull. “Cop!” is my first thought, as my pursuer appeared out of nowhere. I let off the gas and check my speed: seventy-nine in a seventy. Too late to tap my brakes. Besides, he’s likely to smash into me if I try that. I rush to merge back into the other lane and await the flashing blue lights. Except the blue lights never come.
For most of my life, I was a night owl. Up-and-at-‘em types would tease me for my sleeping-in habits. I’d go on the defensive by saying, yeah, you get up at the crack of dawn, but you’re also in bed by dusk like a nerd, whereas I burn the midnight oil like some mad genius tinkering away with the romantic moon and my fellow nocturnal beasts. I preferred, until relatively recently, to work late rather than get up early to complete tasks. In college, I avoided 8 a.m. classes like Joe Biden avoids news conferences. But deep down, I always longed to be one of those people who was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed first thing in the morning, accomplishing half their to-do list before I had hit the snooze button for the third time. For years, I thought it just wasn’t in the cards.
America is enduring a mental health crisis, and you need go no farther than your local Barnes & Noble bookstore to see evidence. I was an avid journal-keeper for years and love all things paper, so I get a little giddy perusing the “stationery and gifts” section. Last weekend, however, rather than being energized by the prospect of filling one of those gorgeous, gilded, supple leather books with my most brilliant thoughts and sweetest sentimentalities, I was left feeling sad about the message sent by so many of the journals, planners, and gifts for sale. Judging from the featured items, you’d be led to believe America is a nation of depressed, exhausted, anxiety-ridden alcoholics. And for the most part, you’d be right.
Father Stu opened in theaters this Holy Week. It’s a movie about a real-life man who led a depraved and reckless life, found God, became a priest, suffered greatly and died from an incurable disease. And did so — more importantly — with patience and good nature that inspired multitudes of those around him. The film’s message is essentially that suffering has value, and as we sit in the richest nation in history drowning in the highest levels of depression ever recorded, such a reminder could not come at a better time. It’s a curious thing that so many people are dissatisfied with life when the standard of living has never been higher.
Hold the MAGA hat. Feel its embroidery. Try it on. Now look at yourself in the mirror. Tell me your stress levels right now. A California mental health professional believes a presumed joke on the internet is quietly being taken very seriously by colleagues. ‘I’ve seen this a few times over the last couple years, and I finally put two and two together,’ the mental health worker told me. The source, who requested anonymity citing workplace bigotry, was scrolling through a private message board for professionals in the field and saw a therapist asking where to find ‘Trump paraphernalia to be used in sessions with patients.’ ‘I realized, oh wow, they’re doing exposure therapy to treat TDS!’ the source said.
