Mental health

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.

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.

Bella Hadid ate burritos today, in case anyone was wondering. Kourtney Kardashian had a smoothie and Paris Hilton had a facial. These snippets of celebrity lives have become so accessible through social media that many of us see these characters more than our family members. But lately, along with recipes and promotions of their new album, fans are increasingly seeing too much. Just this month we’ve witnessed Kanye West’s chaotic downfall, which has now — thankfully — resulted in him vowing to take a month of silence after spurting antisemitic hate for the past few weeks. Lately I’ve seen Madonna’s breasts more than my own — though thankfully I've not yet taken to licking water out of a dog bowl.

After two and a half years of Covid waves and last year’s elusive hot-vax summer that never was, Americans are depressed, bored and clamoring for something to do. I’m one of them. Yet when it comes to choosing what to do, many of us are paralyzed by an embarrassment of riches. Allow me to be the thorn in your side that says: get off your La-Z-Boy and go do something. Anything. Scrolling through Netflix for your next binge-watch doesn’t count. Give your couch cushions some time to regain their figure. I’m probably the worst person to be penning this advice — I’m five days delinquent on my column deadline, and have been at least as late every month for as long as I’ve been writing in these pages.