Anxious Breakdown and Exhaustion at the State of the World
Checking in, how are you really doing right now?
I’ll start by saying this, my bed is now, as God intended, back on the floor. As I starfish face down on my bed-in-a-box™ (use code GREGG20 for 20% off and a free travel tote) I feel my body longing to be one with the ground. To quite literally Flubber into the earth and rejoin the rolly pollies. When I was still new to dating, I used to scoff at the apartments of the older men I’d see. Mattresses without bed frames, bathrooms so dirty I needed a tetanus shot, drains clogged with hair and hair clogged with—well I am not really sure. Now I am 27, and I join this long lineage of men who have begun to give up. And I am not the only one who is celebrating this idea of bed rotting.
The phrase bed rotting, I am assured, is separate from the concept of depression, but to me, it feels like just a new coat of fresh paint. An update on an old classic. Is it any wonder that in a world so bent on rebooting every remaining IP, even depression has seen an image rehabilitation? No different from phrases like “unaliving yourself” or “delulu,” this is just internet jargon used to yes create more inclusive language and discuss the importance of mental health, but at the same time minimize its impact. You’re not experiencing an eating disorder, you’re enjoying your “girl dinner.” You’re not experiencing major mental health concerns, you’re “taking a grippy sock vacation.”
This is the undercurrent of our conversations now. Humor obfuscating intent— humor as a mask and the last line of defense. Deflection as an act of self-preservation. We’d rather use sardonic and pithy catchphrases than say what many of us are really feeling. Being alive, as the option currently exists, is becoming overwhelmingly dissatisfyingly and otherwise inconceivably challenging.
I remember the discourse around My Year of Rest and Relaxation, do not quote the old magic to me, I was there when it was written. The novel by Ottessa Moshfegh follows a character who voluntarily places herself into a comatose state as a way of avoiding her own life. In a fight, flight, freeze, or fawn panic, the protagonist has chosen to freeze, to disappear—to stop everything and quiet her life for a moment. Many read this character choice as selfish and indulgent— a luxury for only those who have the safety net of “opting-out.” And I hear those critiques, I really do, but I also recognize the impulse of the unnamed protagonist. To exist in this world is to be overwhelmed, and I don’t know a single person who hasn’t at least considered burying their head in the sand.
As I talk with more of my friends, I am finding our stressors and anxieties discussed to be more existential than ever. Gone are the simple issues of feeling overwhelmed by classwork or petty dramas— and in their stead are discussions of worldwide genocide, crumbling infrastructure, generational trauma, mass surveillance, widening and stratifying class divisions and so much more. It is hard to be optimistic of our future, or the concept of a future at all, in this current landscape.
Perhaps I am wrong, perhaps this is a result of the fairly privileged vacuum of 27-year-olds I largely associate with. Perhaps it is natural for our stressors to take this tilt towards catastrophizing at this age, and in another five years, we will have figured this all out. When we hit 33 we will know what we want from life, we will buy a home, settle down, support social security, develop a healthy sleep routine, find fulfillment from the monotony of life, eat organic, shop local, give back to our communities, have a trusted plumber, become successes in the eyes of our parents, and find a pair of jeans that work with our particular ass shape. Everything will work out just fine!
And I say that from a place of relative stability, and overall privilege. I realize that largely, my life has been a fairly fortunate one, one without the stressors of my actual livelihood being affected on a daily basis. I can hold space for this truth, while also acknowledging that I don’t know what else we can do to affect change, real change, any longer.
We try to prioritize our mental health, but opting out of the news and the daunt of social media is seen as a patent acceptance of life as it is. You’re not doing enough, this is running away, this is becoming the protagonist in Moshfegh’s novel. Another navel-gazing sheep who can’t hack it in the “big bad world.” We try to support our communities — donate to mutual aid funds and organizations, but this is just modern-day philanthropy. Our funds are used to yes help those in need, but helping in a way that merely continues the capitalistic hold over all of our lives. A dollar used towards getting someone out of prison, still goes to a prison. We think we are helping, think we are taking apart the system, but instead, we serve to strengthen it. We try to use our dollar, our voice, our attention, our energy, any little bit of ourselves to help others, but increasingly we find that these assets are not entirely our own. What is a voice if it can be silenced? What is a dollar if it can be taxed? What is attention if it can be manipulated?
If your alarms aren’t sounding every day, perhaps you need your security system inspected.
I don’t know what else to write in this essay, I don’t know the answer to any of this or know how to dig ourselves out of this hole before the tide comes in. All that I can say is that we are all seeing this, we are all feeling this, and we all want to do what little we can to change it. It’s alright to be overwhelmed right now but one must also acknowledge the extreme luxury that that is. Be thankful for the bed on your floor, be grateful for the privilege of your rest, and if you are lucky enough to be recharged— then please know it is your responsibility to show up. Now more than ever.