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We Are Totally Fucked
And I’m Not Sure We Can Become Un-Fucked.
It’s 2022. Almost 2023.
What the hell are we doing?
We need to do better, but I’m not sure we can. Not until it’s far, far too late anyway.
Important note: I began writing this piece more than a week before the sad death of Stephen (tWitch) Boss. His death is merely the latest in a long line of high-profile suicides of people we envision as being perfectly content.
That’s the worst of it — we have so completely trained people to be sure that what we see of them is fine, that in the moments when everything is anything but fine, it is unbearable for some.
I live in a major city with access to more than one highly-regarded hospital and health care network. I make a good living, but am by no means wealthy. I’m not sure I am even what many people would refer to as “comfortable,” and yet I feel very fortunate about my job, my salary, my security. In that sense, I am indeed comfortable.
I have adult children. Three of them, ages 28, 26, 21. They are doing okay, by post-pandemic standards. The youngest is in college, taking a fifth year to complete. My middle, at 26, is prepping for graduate school. My eldest is making a career switch from bartending back into a daylight job.
