Wherever You Go, There You Are

“I wasn’t expecting there to be so many fat people.” I turned my head towards the front seat, my focus shifting from the eerie symmetry of the palm plantations to the person driving the car. 

 

“Yeah no me either,” I said. “I guess I didn’t really notice last time I was here.” Silence returned for a few beats. Endless rows of palm trees continued to stream past, a standardized simulacrum of a real forest.

 

“I mean, you just don’t really expect it, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“It’s lowkey the same in Bolivia,” a third voice chimed in, “everyone is so fat there.”

 

“It’s lowkey the same in America,” I added pointedly. That spelled the end of the conversation, the lingering subtext of what I’d just said setting up what would surely be an argument. The silence hung heavy and uncomfortable over the car. The palm trees stretched on. 

 

When I was ten, my family took a trip to Costa Rica. I remember it as an eye-opening, disorienting, and thoroughly wild experience. We stayed in an open-air house on the remote Osa Peninsula - more than a third of which is comprised of a large, rainforested national park. National Geographic once called it “the most biologically intense place on Earth,” and it earns that description. My parents drilled the name and idea into my head. There was something different about the Osa. It was special. Apart. Remote. Wild. The exotic sense of it was wormed deep into my brain, and when I thought of vacations my mind would inevitably wander back to the macaws squawking loudly at dawn, the distant roars of howler monkeys, and the way the beach came alive at night, the sand crawling with crabs and toads. Perhaps that is why, when approached by two of my friends with the prospect of a spring break trip, I suggested the Osa. 

 

The drive from San Jose to Matapalo is long. Longer than we, three American tourists, realized. Google Maps says it takes seven-and-a-half hours. Try twelve. This drive would, of course, be conducted largely in the dark, on winding, poorly-lit roads, surrounded by monstrous semi-trucks barrelling at breakneck pace across the isthmus of Central America - the blood cells of trade flowing rapidly through that crucial artery. 

 

Tourists often travel to places like Costa Rica, that is to say countries poorer than their own, in order to live luxuriously for a time - to be waited on by friendly, grateful locals who respond happily to dollars. The routes from airports to resorts are streamlined and sanitized, obscuring the conditions that make such extravagance possible. When, on occasion, one steps off of the beaten path, they are likely to see a different picture. 

 

Arriving in the Osa did, for me, exactly that. It is one of the cruel ironies of modern American poverty that one of its frequent comorbidities is obesity. Where, in earlier epochs, corpulence may have signified wealth and status - access to food in a scarce world - it is now all too often found alongside privation and economic restriction. Commenting on others’ appearances is uncouth and unkind, especially if those comments are made from a position of unequal power - “punching down” as they say. But the awkwardness of the situation doesn’t change its degree of truth or falsity. And in this case, a truth previously unknown to us was that Costa Rica is experiencing high (and rising) rates of obesity. And it was clear that, just as in the US, the problem is not evenly distributed. 

 

When I studied abroad in Spain, I had a conversation once with my host mother about obesity in America. She (I think largely unconsciously) subscribed to a worldview that held strongly in personal responsibility for the circumstances of one’s life. She believed obesity to be indicative of a deficiency of discipline, and that if only people exercised greater control over their habits, they might find themselves svelte and mobile, their lives drastically changed. I knew this to be false, and that it is certainly impossible to explain structural, systemic issues like obesity via the personal “failings” of individuals. If she had ever observed the character of American poverty, its viciousness a far cry from the protections of European labor laws and safety nets, I think she would feel differently. In the Osa, there was visible the same incestuous relationship between poverty and obesity as exists in the US. This was not a different world, a special, separate place. It was the same one, governed by the same forces, and subject to the same distortions of interpretation and ideology. 

 

The friends I was traveling with were old and close. One of them, Trevor, had been one of my best friends since Kindergarten. He and I had always had our disagreements, arguments over the way things were or ought to be (we were also debate partners in high school), but they rarely felt serious. It usually sufficed to chalk things up to a difference of opinion, or to find something to distract from the conversation - some activity or other diversion. But when you’re stuck in close quarters for extended periods of time, with little in the way of external distraction, you’re bound to bump into each other. And, though we remained (and remain) close after graduating high school, our lives had diverged in important ways. We went to different schools, studied different things, spent time with different people. We understood the world differently. 

 

The most obvious manifestation of this difference was in our political views. While driving to the grocery store - whose low quality and high prices revealed the market dynamics at work in the town - we fell into a conversation about the state of the world:

 

“It’s funny,” Trevor said, “I feel worse about the US when I’m outside of it than when I’m actually there.”

 

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I responded, characteristically unable to leave a thought alone and overeager to offer an explanation. “I feel like it’s because the only view you really get is the headlines and the news. Like, you’re not on the ground just living your normal, day-to-day life. I feel like you kind of lose that ‘veil of normalcy’ that you usually have where maybe you know things aren’t normal but life basically just goes on the same way.”

 

“Hmm.” He avoided a pothole.

 

“What, you don’t like that one?”

 

He shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe.”

 

“It’s like, you remember when I called you after the election? And you said that like nothing was gonna actually change, and I was saying that nothing’s gonna change overnight but it will change and you’ve gotta keep in mind that shit’s not normal? I feel like it’s like that same kind of thing.”

 

“Yeah but I feel like I was right about that.” If I could’ve fallen out of my seat I would’ve.

 

“What do you mean?” I asked incredulously.

 

“I feel like things haven’t really changed that much,” he said.

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Yeah.” This was it. We’d arrived at a point that would color in the shape of the thing we’d been dancing around.

 

“Dude, we’re literally bombing the shit out of Iran right now.”

 

“Oh we’re at war in the middle east, that’s so new.”

 

“They’re kidnapping people off the streets, they’ve got people in camps who can’t talk to lawyers or family, kids!”

 

“Obama had kids in cages too.”

 

“And that’s fucked up! Am I supposed to defend that?”

 

“No it’s just not new.”

 

“They’re tracking everything we do, they’re unifying all of our data into easily actionable databases. We fucking abducted the president of Venezuela! Plus they’re robbing us blind, the level of corruption is unreal, all of Trump’s crypto bullshit? And they literally just straight up lie about everything!”

 

“Again, I don’t think any of that is new.”

 

“Yeah but you’re like purposefully missing the point! It’s not that it’s new, it’s that it’s worse now than it used to be.”

 

“I don’t think it is.” 

 

Arrival at the grocery store saved the conversation from spiraling further, but didn’t wipe it from our memories. We spent the drive home talking cautiously about nonsense, careful not to reignite the argument for the time being. All the while, I kept thinking about how it could be that he was unwilling to acknowledge that things were bad, that there was a difference in degree between times. Inside my head I was growing increasingly frustrated at what seemed like a complete dismissal of real issues as unimportant or untrue, and recalling the many times when I had encountered similar attitudes. 

 

Back at our Airbnb, we set upon our newly acquired provisions - chicken with rice and beans, chips and salsa, and quite a bit of beer. As the alcohol flowed the dinnertime conversation grew more intense. Voices were louder than usual, inhibitions lowered, buttons pushed. Trevor and I bumped into each other again and again and again, each exchange drawing closer to an explicit declaration of what was at issue. And eventually, I snapped. Oliver, our friend, made a comment about RFK Jr., and I couldn’t help myself.

 

“What do you think about RFK, Trev?” He was mid-swig, and once he’d swallowed he gestured with his beer, a wry smile on his lips.

 

“I like what he’s doing on food,” he said. I knew he was goading me, but I didn’t care.

 

“Why do you always have to be so fucking optimistic? What is it with this weird-ass silver lining shit? Why can’t you ever just say something is bad?” Frankly I was glad to get it out in the open, even though I knew I had just soured the collective mood.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“First it’s in the car you think that everything is the same as it’s always been, and now you’re pro-RFK.” We were both settling in, this was going to be a long night. Oliver’s head was already down, nose in his phone - he would rather just ignore this.

 

“I didn’t say that. I said I liked what he was doing on food.”

 

“Yeah but you chose to say that, as opposed to something else. What about all the other stuff? You picked out this vague, positive non-answer instead of addressing the actual implication of the question.”

 

“Which is what?” His expression was growing even more defiant.

 

“That the guy’s a fucking lunatic!” I exclaimed. “That the anti-vaxx guy is running the Department of Health and Human Services!”

 

“He’s not anti-vaxx,” Trevor said. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Oliver’s focus remained on his phone. 

 

The argument continued for two hours, over too broad a range of topics to cover here, but a few remarks stood out towards the end. The last topic had been lifestyle optimization, which Trevor supported, and as we wrapped up, both of us drunk and tired, we got as close as we had to some of the deeper, key questions behind the scenes. “I just think, if you’re actively working to change things, then you have a right to complain. But if not, you’re just going to end up driving yourself crazy,” Trevor said. Ah, there it was, I was wondering when we’d get here. It was as if the words were on fire in the air in front of me. Working. Right. Complain. Crazy.

 

“What about the response that there’s value to being informed in itself? To an awareness of things as they are?” I responded.

 

“I think that’s an excuse,” he said bluntly. The exchange had an air of finality to it, so that’s where we ended, both of us shuffling off to bed. 

 

Lying in bed, I reflected on the conversation and all that had been said over the course of those hours. The topic leading into the last had been mental health, which had come up because Trevor had repeatedly accused me of pessimism, declaring my views needlessly and erroneously bleak. It was terrain we’d trod many times before, and especially familiar territory for me in the prior few months, as I’d recently been diagnosed with ADHD and Depression. I struggled to reconcile my certainty of my own sanity with the implicit accusation that I felt and thought the way I did because there was something “wrong” with me.

 

We call these things madness. We say “you’re being dramatic,” “you’re overreacting,” “it’s not that bad.” But what if it is? What if I’m not crazy? Just because I’m depressed doesn’t make me wrong. 

 

Every day around the world millions of people labor in inhumane conditions. Mothers weep in delirium over the emaciated and mangled bodies of their children, their throats hoarse from wailing and their eyes sore from crying, before they themselves are raped and executed. People lay in the street, starving, begging for help, while society and all of its well-dressed constituents ignore them, stepping over their discarded frames on the way to their charity balls. Children are locked in cages and separated from their families and their cries echo through halls and screens and speakers and fall on deaf ears and dead, blind eyes. And fingers scroll “next.” Enfeebled elderly forget their own names and die scared and alone in dark, dirty rooms serviced by overworked, burnt out nurses. Boys kill themselves, girls starve themselves, and structures and systems of all kinds say “take a number.” And the world keeps spinning. And all of the good comes with more bad than it’s worth to buy it and the planet warms and the animals die, crying out their last mating calls to empty space. 

​

And I can’t get out of bed. And I have to apply for jobs. And I can’t eat. And I have to write an essay. And I can’t work. And I have to do a problem set. And I can’t stop thinking. And I can’t stay awake. And I can’t fall asleep. And my head is loud. And I haven’t seen the sun in days. And the government is killing people. And the government is stealing. And the government is killing people. And the companies are stealing. And the companies are killing people. And my friends want to work in Finance. And I’m supposed to keep my grades up. And I have to take the LSAT. And the government is killing people. And the University is stalking students. And I need to read that book. And I need to learn French. And AI is taking the jobs. And I need to get in shape. And I need to save money. And I need to calm down. And I need to go out. And I need to talk to someone. And I want it to stop. And maybe I could make it stop. And maybe I should. And maybe I shouldn’t. 

 

Here’s the thing about mental health: The defining feature of the mainstream, socially acceptable way we talk about it is to assert that it’s your problem, and it’s your responsibility. It’s something to be managed and controlled, worked at, and kept within a certain “normal” space. To this end you should keep a journal, exercise, get outside, take supplements, avoid the news and things that make you sad or upset, spend time with friends but don’t drink or smoke, track your sleep and your biometrics, optimize your life! All of this you should do, and not only is it all your sole responsibility and obligation, but if you do not you will be ridiculed and derided. You idiot, don’t you know you should be potassiummaxxing? Why don’t you just have AI write it? What’s wrong with them having my data? I don’t care. Did you get my PolyMarket invite? Bro it’s not that deep don’t get so pressed. 

 

I’m not about to suggest that mental health is a myth, or that my falling into depressive, overwhelmed spirals is not a problem. I will however suggest that the mainstream lens/understanding of mental health is an inadequate one to address the actual question of sanity.

 

Here’s a mindfuck for you: Truth is an institution. Don’t believe me? Ask a racist what he thinks about minorities. He will spit out some ridiculous, virulent, hateful bullshit that he genuinely believes. When confronted with evidence to the contrary, he will experience cognitive dissonance: the mental discomfort caused by holding two or more conflicting beliefs. To resolve this dissonance he could do several things: he could accept the new information, reject it completely, or a number of things in between. The point being, his beliefs are genuine, and the reason confronting them causes psychological distress is because they are deeply tied to his identity - his conception of himself. That identity is established through the ways he situates himself in relation to others, as is everyone’s. The mechanism for the establishment of identity in these terms (socially) looks something like this: Recognition of the systemic valuation of some things over others, the subsequent repression of “devalued” interests, feelings, behaviors, etc., and the internalization of the externally imposed logic. The “system” here basically refers to the community of which he conceives of himself as being a part, and to which he considers himself attached. Challenging the truth of his beliefs challenges his place in that community because within that community, those beliefs are true. Truth is collectively and systemically constructed. 

 

The particular value knobs and dials of a system can produce different outcomes. Take, for example, a scenario with something like dancing - an act of expression, an art. Socially, someone may learn that “bad” dancing is ridiculed, but “good” dancing is praised - they have seen that the system acts harshly against a particular behavior and pleasantly towards another. Wanting to avoid ridicule and unsure of the quality of their own dancing (but suspecting it to be poor) they repress their desire to dance. The cycle/process is complete when they learn to dance, not for enjoyment or self-expression, but for social acceptance or gain. This last point is crucial, but may seem counterintuitive. After all, they learned to dance! And it’s true, they did learn to dance, but they did it for utilitarian reasons - to serve a purpose outside of themselves. In this way, dancing has been converted from an act of authentic expression, into a performance: The dancer is presenting an altered version of themself, the version that someone else wants them to be (or the dancer thinks they want them to be, that’s the thing about perception). The nature of the behavior has been changed. Putting it in more dire-sounding terms, the dancer has denied their being. They are less themself than they could be. 

 

I have a gut feeling that I’m not saying anything that a reader doesn’t already know or implicitly understand. We understand that there are some people with whom we feel more comfortable sharing things than others, that we act differently with different people. I think that this can be best summed up as a spectrum/gradient of vulnerability - a ratio of authenticity to performance. One of the tricky things about this though, is that vulnerability requires somebody that you are being vulnerable to. In order to be more yourself, you have to be in interaction with somebody else, and you have to trust that they are going to be responsive to what you say. But what if they’re not? What if you are authentic and they perform? What if by denying their being they deny you yours? 

 

Looking back on my conversation with Trevor I can’t help but wonder if I inadvertently closed off the space for him to be vulnerable, to actually express how he was feeling. He and I used to talk a lot more often than we do now. I was hard to reach for about eight months, four halfway across the world and another four with inconsistent cell service. When our orbits got closer again I had come back with a girlfriend, a new best friend, someone else that I poured out my thoughts to. He seemed more closed off than he once had, and the more he told me about his life back at school, the less it seemed like he had people around him with whom he could be authentic. 

 

And then there was his concluding declaration. A common and revealing criticism: You’re just whining, and if you’re not going to do anything about it, then stop thinking about it. It’s bad for you. Just put it out of your mind. Stop bringing the rest of us down, you’re not better than us, you’re not doing anything about it either. I’ve always struggled with this one, because it feels like a slap in the face for a number of reasons. Perhaps most significantly though, because it is a rejection of authentic expression/outreach, a denial of the implicit request for commiseration over shared realities. It says, we share a reality, but I won’t acknowledge it, and neither should you. This is, I think, the most pernicious resolution of the cognitive dissonance caused by the difference between authenticity and performance: more performance. This goes back to the fact that “mental health” is a relative term, not an absolute one. If “normal,” “sane,” or “mentally healthy” are defined as effective conformity to a system whose knobs and dials are calibrated in a given way, then that definition is one that is largely unconcerned with the actual content of your thoughts, so long as your behavior is performed as it should be. Now, one might exclaim that there's no way performance 24/7 could be mentally healthy! And I would agree, but in the eyes of a system which has as its ultimate behavioral standard, productivity? There is nothing more appealing than a self which is completely dissociated from its actions, whose actions are performed entirely for the system. 

 

And the thing is, wherever you go, there you are. Sometimes, when things are bad, there’s a recurring fantasy that I have, that if only I could live somewhere far away from it all, some peaceful, rustic locale close to nature, my problems would be solved. I would feel better, my days would be simple, my life filled with beauty. And yeah, it’d be nice to live close to nature and live at a relaxed pace and see beautiful things every day. But is that really going to fix me? Is that actually going to solve it? No, probably not. The problems aren’t purely internal, but they aren’t purely external either. The world is the world, as real in one place as it is in another, and I will not be made instantly better by being somewhere else. This leads me to the question of the escape into further performance and the fact that the endpoint is the complete and utter denial of the self. Once again, wherever you go, there you are, only perhaps there comes a point where you go where you are no longer. You can’t get away, you’ve got to go through.