How to Think of Others

Why act so crazy when it all ends in sweet, sweet death? Pema. Stoics. A poem for the stressed.

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*****

When I checked into rehab in mid-October of 2015, I handed over my phone to one of the technicians and said to put mine in a locker for the full extent of my stay. I wanted to get serious and focus on the recovery, and I was also excited about experiencing life without a phone for once, since I was sure I had suffered some third-degree level of internet brain burn. I wanted to remember what life was like before the machines took over, maybe pretend they never did.

I hardly noticed after the first few days. And after a few weeks, when the whole rehab experience took on a real summer-camp vibe among all the residents and the staff, I was glad I didn't have it. There were a couple of people who paid extra to have an hour of internet access per day, and, even with that small amount of time, they seemed more distracted and distant than the rest of us.

Then, in November, the Bataclan terrorist attack at the Eagles of Death Metal concert happened. We all watched CNN in the common area as French field reporters pressing their earpieces relayed horrifying details back to Don Lemon. Those of us who were concerned tried to hush those who weren't. Those who didn't care were in the majority, so they got annoyed at how serious lounge time had become and switched the channel back to Impractical Jokers, which was on nonstop at this place. That was okay by me.

I remember thinking how strange it was to go to bed the night of a horrible terrorist attack with only the most basic information available via 20 minutes of low-volume cable news. Not staying up to refresh Twitter until my eyeballs cracked open felt somewhat irresponsible. But I went to bed at 10 p.m. and when I got up at 6 a.m. I was in no rush to find out any more details about how many people died or read the dozens of grave-sounding op-eds about how dangerous the world had become.

Sometimes I daydream about how different my life would be if I didn't own an iPhone anymore—if I just kept it locked in that safe and walked out of there with nothing but a calling card and a duffle bag full of moldy clothes. And there were 85 things to be angered or terrified by this past week, no more than usual, but some weeks have a different edge, and this was one of them for me.

I thought about this dream a little more on Friday, when the submissions for the weed-centric "What It's Like…" feature began to come in. The emails took on a different tone closer to the end of the day, and many of them didn't sound like typical TSB readers at all, as they often came with sharp-sounding opinions about marijuana usage. This particularly super-agro one really bugged me:

Dear TSB, I just read the weed article.

This is such bs. I was addicted to narcotics.

Weed has nothing on thier [sic] withdrawal.

Imo, you're a bunch of neurotic people who cry over not having your way verses [sic] people dealing in recovery.

If the 12 steps are applied diligently all the issues sited [sic] will take care of themselves.

He went on for a couple more nasty little paragraphs and said we shouldn't be running such "swill." He said that his program teaches him to be accepting of others, but not when it comes to saving lives, and it's his job to save lives, first and foremost.

In the rare moments I do get push-back on a story, I try to delete it and move on with my day. But I went semi-goon on this person, and I emailed him back to tell him that his Higher Power sounded like a real asshole.