Anxiety

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Bestiary (2020)

  Later—when we were in the classroom closet for our time-out, having flooded the bathroom and cut PE—I whispered to Ben in the dark that I might still eat her someday. Her laughter lit the dark between us, torched it to ash. When I told her to stop laughing, that it could really happen, Ben said I shouldn’t be afraid of what the tail wanted me to be. You’re becoming the species that will save you. But neither of us knew what I needed to be saved from. Neither of us knew what a beast was born to do. DAUGHTERBirthdate [image file=image_rsrc1SC.jpg] Or: Why Fathers Fail as Sources of WaterOn my brother’s birthday, my father asked if we wanted to go to the zoo. It was the same one Duck Uncle had taken us to. Our mother told us we had to go, even after my brother faked sickness by stewing vomit on the stove: He boiled water and cornstarch and an apple peel for color, then poured the pink glue of it down his shirt, pretending to gag it out of his mouth. But my mother wiped him off with a dishrag and said our father was our father: He carried us the way birds carry the sky. The sea shoulders the boat, she said. He’s the water, we’re what floats. Water can sink a boat too, I said, tracing a hole in the air with my finger. My brother and I finally agreed to go not because we thought our father was the sea, but because our mother begged us, and she was the only body of water we believed in. After my mother took the bus to work, my father drove us there with the windows down, our cheeks ripened by the wind. Our eyelashes knitted to the dust that blew in, a powder of sun-dried cowshit and dirt from the fields along the highway. Some summers, the fields caught fire and grew trees of smoke and my mother dipped bandanas in the sink to tie around our mouths, telling us to breathe careful: Our lungs could be lit up like logs. I fell asleep with my head rolling in my brother’s lap, his hands petting my hair along its part. He roved his palm over my face like a stethoscope, but it was his heart I could hear, accelerating as the car did. When we neared the zoo, I could hear him counting his own breaths, numbering them backward from a hundred, something he only did when my father was near.

• From Generation Anxiety: A Millennial and Gen Z Guide to Staying Afloat in an Uncertain World (2023)

  You also don’t need to stay in a situation where you’re utterly miserable. Even though anxiety may want you to feel weak and deferential, that’s not a script that you need to adhere to. You can write your own script and create the conclusion that best suits you. That’s not selfish or inconsiderate. You’re being honest with yourself and everyone else around you about what actually matters to you. No apologies necessary. WHEN IT’S TIME TO GET BACK INTO THE WATER This chapter isn’t about the initial crash of heartbreak. It’s about how we can pick ourselves back up again, even when we feel jaded and resentful after a loss. If we’re not careful, the anxiety of getting hurt again can make us feel like we never want to try again. We’ve all seen this pop up in our lives in various ways. We swear off dating after someone cheats on us, feeling like we can never trust anyone again. We refuse to get another dog because it ripped our hearts out when our loving pet died. We promise to never get close with another friend because they could abandon us, backstab us, or drop the ball like the last one did. The more we write others off, the farther and farther we get from allowing ourselves to vulnerably connect. Now, sometimes, we need to sit on our shore for a while. We need to reflect on what has happened to us before we jump back in the water. While there’s no set timeline for how long you should take it easy, remember to listen to your body’s cues. If you find yourself crying on a first date or wanting to talk the entire time about how someone did you dirty when you’re meeting someone new, that may be a clue that more of a time-out is needed. Grace and Ryan sat together for two months in couples therapy after they broke up. After being in each other’s lives for ten years, they each felt that they couldn’t be ripped away from each other overnight. The breakup was hard enough as it was. They held each other through that pain before gradually and then fully parting ways. Eventually, though, there comes a time when you feel courageous enough to dip your toe back in your water. You may need to give yourself a nudge—after all, sometimes it’s hard to feel fully ready to let our hearts be loved after a loss. We have to remind ourselves that it’s not just anxiety that coincides with a fresh start. There can be passion and excitement, too. If we’ve been holding ourselves back for too long, we can forget what it feels like to deeply connect with another person, creature, or experience. We forget how it feels to be kissed, to have a pet greet us at the door, or to visit a new country for the first time.

• From Generation Anxiety: A Millennial and Gen Z Guide to Staying Afloat in an Uncertain World (2023)

  And yet, interestingly, one study found that teaching children to fear the world, something that about 53 percent of parents do, correlated with less success, less job and life satisfaction, poorer health, more depression, increased suicide attempts, and “less flourishing.” 55 Then again, it’s a lot easier to tell your children that the world wishes you well when you’ve been in a place of power and privilege all of your life, as had family members in generations prior. When you don’t have to fear the unexplainable and unpredictable hammers of life, you’re much more free to “flourish.” Given this, it makes sense why we are collectively Generation Anxiety. Biologically, historically, and emotionally, anxiety has become etched in our coding. For many of us, it has been steeped in our tea that we are not protected. Indeed, so many of our parents and grandparents haven’t been. Our families have fed us user guides to keep us hyper-alert. It’s been done with the best of intentions. And while we need to integrate this intergenerational wisdom, there’s a part of me that wonders: What if it can be different with us? Yes, we may be a generation marked by anxiety and depression right now. Some people mockingly call us “snowflakes” because of it. But the fact that we have the capacity to feel deeply shouldn’t define us negatively—if anything, that capacity to care is a strength, not a weakness. Just as we hold pain in our blood, we also hold power, too. Contrary to how some may frame us, I believe we are much more than our fear. While we would never choose the situation we’ve been dealt, we can take what we’ve been given and make something better. After all, if our genes can be changed based on the traumas we’ve endured, can they not be changed by the positive strides toward healing that we take as well? Who said we can’t be the comeback kids with the comeback genes? Indeed, various studies are showing that change is possible. We are seeing how mindfulness, exercise, eating nutrient-dense foods, not using substances to excess (especially nicotine and alcohol), and reducing stress, among other tools, can all play a part in changing the script. 56 What we do to our bodies changes us on a cellular level. For example, practicing mindfulness can help reduce the size of the amygdala (that lovely fear center we’ve been learning about) while thickening the gray matter in the prefrontal cortex, which helps us plan, problem solve, and navigate our emotions. 57 Another example: changing your diet and refraining from inflammatory-inducing foods (here’s looking at you, ultraprocessed foods) impacts our gut microbiome. When we put foods such as salmon, spinach, cauliflower, and strawberries in our bodies, they act as protective agents against depression.

• From Bestiary (2020)

  Her apples grew teeth instead of seeds, and our birch’s branches curved down into claws. We’ll take care of her, my mother said, and it sounded like a threat. There was a vengeance to the way my mother prepped the sofa, punching the pillow into shape, sealing the cracks between cushions with duct tape. When I was born, I stole a mother from her, she said. And it’s better to be born dead than with that kind of debt. My mother prepared for Dayi’s arrival like a pregnancy, locking away sharp or flammable things, compiling a list of English names for her to answer to. _ We brought Dayi to Costco. I told her it was the only place in the country where you could buy both your cradle and your casket. Your life span was the length of an aisle. Carts so big they looked like animal cages rattling across the concrete floor. I sat cross-legged in the cart and humped the bars until my mother told me to stop acting deranged. I said I was pretending to be a tiger in its cage. While my mother prodded shrink-wrapped beef, thumbing the meat as if checking for its pulse, Dayi pushed me down an aisle wide enough for an airplane. The ceiling high as a church’s. I told Dayi this was a place of worship: sacred were the super-packs of socks on sale, so cheap we wished we had as many feet as a millipede. Holy were the baked hams, fat as infants, waiting to be adopted into our bellies. Dayi and I opened every door in the freezer aisle: peas, pies, poultry. Americans freeze everything, I said, and when she asked why, I said it was because their mouths were probably microwaves. Buy my casket at Costco, Dayi said. Better yet, don’t spend anything. Feed my body to the parking lot pigeons. The Costco pigeons landed on the pavement in bulk and panthered across the lot, pouncing on our feet. Outside, my mother bought us hot dogs with a coupon and we slicked them with mustard, eating the buns and feeding the meat to the pigeons. _ Dayi was born without blood. A doctor had to kill a goat and use tubes to siphon goatblood into Dayi’s empty veins. But the doctor accidentally pumped too much blood into her, turning her red-hard and bloated as an apple. When Ama bathed her in a bucket, she bobbed ass-up in the water. Every day, Dayi wore something red: a petal she slid under her thumbnail, a handkerchief, a red thread around her wrist, a scar on her belly where her blood was shepherded in. Even her favorite foods were red: pig’s blood cake, char siu buns, eels that grew scarlet gills after eating the corpsemeat of the drowned. Whatever she touched could only blush: Green guavas turned the color of biblical apples.

• From Generation Anxiety: A Millennial and Gen Z Guide to Staying Afloat in an Uncertain World (2023)

  It’s not only that we’re not doing enough—we’re making it way too easy for these problems to perpetuate. Realistically, though, we also cannot monitor every move of someone we’re concerned about. If we’re already at that point, then we know a larger framework of support should have been brought in beforehand. Sadly, that support just isn’t always there. We don’t always have safe and effective places for these people to go. We could write a whole separate book on the debate on deinstitutionalization, but the truth of the matter is, we need more support for individuals and the caregivers who surround them. Instead of blaming others, like Jessie, for not “fixing” the problem or “noticing the signs,” we need to provide more education on bystander interventions while destigmatizing accessing services. We need to have larger conversations about how to finance housing and staff for those who need daily support. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for a recovery-based model of care where we empower the person to take as much ownership over their life as possible. 103 But until then, it’s no wonder caretakers experience tremendous anxiety—they inherently know that the onus of responsibility may very well fall on them rather than the person who actually invoked harm. Furthermore, if they don’t care—then who does? This was the question that kept Jessie up at night when she would wait for Tony’s call, which never seemed to come. I know that for many of you, worrying about someone else is practically your full-time job. You stress about whether your loved one will go to their therapy appointment today or ditch. Did they take their pills and refill their prescription? Do they have access to sharp objects? Did they relapse? It’s exhausting to drown in those thoughts—especially when there is only so much that you can do. This is where we come back to it: empowered acceptance. I want to switch it up this time, though, and instead of starting with acceptance, as we often do, let’s begin with the empowerment piece. I don’t want you to read this chapter and walk away believing that you need to give up on your loved ones. Quite the opposite. I want you to be wholly empowered in doing what you can at the pace that you can. If you have the bandwidth to support someone in a way that motivates them to take care of themselves, by all means, go for it. Let’s break down the difference, though, between empowered support and enabled support. ENABLED SUPPORTEMPOWERED SUPPORT Listening to your friend’s challenges for weeks (and months) on end but being too afraid to recommend they see a therapist. You don’t want to offend them, after all. Listening to your friend’s challenges and offering to help them find a therapist to support them long-term.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I looked about me. It was a Sunday and the Strand was rather quiet - but I didn’t know it; it might have been the race-track at the Derby to me, so deafening and dizzying was the clatter of the traffic, so swift the passage of the horses. I felt safer in the carriage, and only rather queer, to be so close to a gentleman I did not know, being transported I knew not where, in a city that was vaster and smokier and more alarming than I could have thought possible.There was much, of course, to look at. Mr Bliss had suggested we take in the sights a little before we headed for Brixton, so now we rolled into Trafalgar Square - towards Nelson on his pillar, and the fountains, and the lovely, bone-coloured front of the National Gallery, and the view down Whitehall to the Houses of Parliament.‘My brother,’ I said, as I pressed my face to the window to gaze at it all, ‘said I would be run down by a tram in Trafalgar Square, if ever I came to London.’Mr Bliss looked grave. ‘Your brother was very sensible to warn you, Miss Astley - but sadly misinformed. There are no trams in Trafalgar Square - only buses and hansoms, and broughams like our own. Trams are for common people; you should have to go quite as far as Kilburn, I’m afraid, or Camden Town, in order to be struck by a tram.’I smiled uncertainly. I did not know, quite, what to make of Mr Bliss, to whom my future and my happiness had been so recently, and so unexpectedly, entrusted. While he addressed himself to Kitty, and directed our attention every so often to some scene or character in the street beyond, I studied him. He was a little younger, I saw, than I had taken him to be at first. That night in Kitty’s dressing-room I had thought him almost middle-aged; now I guessed him to be one- or two-and-thirty, at the most. He was an impressive, rather than a handsome, man, but for all his flash and his speeches, rather homely: I thought he must have a little wife who loved him, and a baby; and that if he did not - which, in fact, was the case - that he should have. I knew nothing, then, of his history, but learned later that he came from an old, respectable, theatrical family (his real name was no more Bliss, of course, than Kitty’s was Butler); that he had left the legitimate stage when he was still a young man, in order to work the halls as a comic singer; and that he managed, now, a dozen artistes, but still, on occasion, took a turn before the footlights - as ‘Walter Waters, Character Baritone’ - for sheer love of the profession.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Calvin answered in an elaborate letter (June 26, 1549),921 to the effect that marriage with Romanists was to be condemned; that popish baptism was valid and efficacious, and should be resorted to when no other can be had, since the Roman communion, though corrupt, still retained marks of the true Church as well as a scattered number of elect individuals, and since baptism was not a popish invention but a divine institution and gift of God who fulfils his promises; that the question on the mode of the resurrection, and its relation to the changing states of our mortal body, was one of curiosity rather than utility. Before receiving this answer, Socinus wrote to Calvin again from Basel (July 25, 1549) on the same subjects, especially the resurrection, which troubled his mind very much.922 To this Calvin returned another answer (December, 1549), and warned him against the dangers of his sceptical bent of mind.923 Socinus was not discouraged by the earnest rebuke, nor shaken in his veneration for Calvin. During the Bolsec troubles, when at Wittenberg, he laid before him his scruples about predestination and free-will, and appealed to the testimony of Melanchthon, whom he had informed about the harsh treatment of Bolsec. Calvin answered briefly and not without some degree of bitterness.924 Socinus visited Geneva a second time in 1554, after his return from a journey to Italy, and before making Zürich his final home. He was then, apparently, still in friendly relations to Calvin and Caraccioli.925 Soon afterwards he opened to Calvin, in four questions, his objections to the doctrine of the vicarious atonement. Calvin went to the trouble to answer them at length, with solid arguments, June, 1555.926 But Socinus was not satisfied. His scepticism extended further to the doctrine of the sacraments and of the Trinity. He doubted first the personality of the Holy Spirit, and then the eternal divinity of Christ. He disapproved the execution of Servetus, and advocated toleration. Various complaints against Socinus reached Bullinger. Calvin requested him to restrain the restless curiosity of the sceptic. Vergerio, then at Tübingen, Saluz of Coire, and other ministers, sent warnings. Bullinger instituted a private inquiry in a kindly spirit, and was satisfied with a verbal and written declaration of Socinus (July 15, 1555) to the effect that he fully agreed with the Scriptures and the Apostles’ Creed, that he disapproved the doctrines of the Anabaptists and Servetus, and that he would not teach any errors, but live in quiet retirement. Bullinger protected him against further attacks.

• From Dreams from My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance (1995)

  We were lucky; somebody had called the security guard downstairs, but the orderly was too embarrassed to admit to the incident. On the drive back, I gave Kyle a long lecture about keeping his cool, about violence, about responsibility. My words sounded trite, and Kyle sat without answering, his eyes fixed on the road. When I was finished he turned to me and said, “Just don’t tell my momma, all right?” I thought that was a good sign. I said I wouldn’t tell Ruby what had happened so long as he did, and he grudgingly agreed. Kyle was a good kid; he still cared about something. Would that be enough to save him? The week after Johnnie’s and my adventure in Hyde Park, I decided it was time to take on the public schools. It seemed like a natural issue for us. Segregation wasn’t much of an issue anymore; whites had all but abandoned the system. Neither was overcrowding, at least in black neighborhood high schools; only half the incoming students bothered to stick around for graduation. Otherwise, Chicago’s schools remained in a state of perpetual crisis—annual budget shortfalls in the hundreds of millions; shortages of textbooks and toilet paper; a teachers’ union that went out on strike at least once every two years; a bloated bureaucracy and an indifferent state legislature. The more I learned about the system, the more convinced I became that school reform was the only possible solution for the plight of the young men I saw on the street; that without stable families, with no prospects for blue-collar work that could support a family of their own, education was their last best hope. And so in April, in between working on other issues, I developed an action plan for the organization and started peddling it to my leadership. The response was underwhelming. Some of it was a problem of self-interest, constituencies misaligned. Older church members told me they had already raised their children; younger parents, like Angela and Mary, sent their children to Catholic schools. The biggest source of resistance was rarely talked about, though—namely, the uncomfortable fact that every one of our churches was filled with teachers, principals, and district superintendents. Few of these educators sent their own children to public schools; they knew too much for that. But they would defend the status quo with the same skill and vigor as their white counterparts of two decades before. There wasn’t enough money to do the job right, they told me (which was certainly true). Efforts at reform—decentralization, say, or cutbacks in the bureaucracy—were part of a white effort to wrest back control (not so true). As for the students, well, they were impossible. Lazy. Unruly. Slow. Not the children’s fault, maybe, but certainly not the schools’. There may not be any bad kids, Barack, but there sure are a lot of bad parents.

• From Generation Anxiety: A Millennial and Gen Z Guide to Staying Afloat in an Uncertain World (2023)

  A queer, agnostic, transgender, Latinx woman, she told me that she had barely gotten a few hours of rest because her best friend from college, whom we’ll call Tony, was imprisoned a few months ago because of a reported burglary. According to Jessie, what began as an alcohol addiction for Tony evolved into a cocaine problem. He had begun acting erratically over the past six months and Jessie told me she had been worried sick about him. While she felt that she should help her friend, she said the situation really devolved when she learned that he was arrested for breaking and entering, with a gun. Now that he was in jail and couldn’t afford bail, Tony was all she could think about. Not only was she trying to gather funds for his bail, she also began skipping her classes, ignoring her other friends, and hardly sleeping because she never knew when Tony might call from jail. She told me that she felt like death, but she didn’t want to “let Tony down.” She came to me in hopes that I could help her help her friend. I had another purpose, though: to help her help herself. I realize that many of you, like Jessie, are mini therapists in the making. You could have completed an internship by now with all the hours you’ve done giving therapy sessions at three in the morning. And while it’s beyond generous of you to support your friends and family in this way, it’s not sustainable. That’s why I had to include this chapter. I’m writing this not only so that you can help those around you who are struggling—but also so you can protect your own well-being. When you’re working overtime for the people in your life, it’s a fast- track road to burnout. And while you started out as the lifeguard, you can quickly find yourself drowning if you’re not careful. You’re probably thinking of someone you’re worried about right now as you read this chapter. There is likely no greater pain than watching our friends and family suffer. Sometimes it’s worse than bearing our own burdens. And whether another’s behavior is intentional or unintentional, it rips us to our core. To feel some semblance of control, we often want to jump in and take action because we feel utterly powerless watching destruction right before our eyes. Here’s the thing, though. We can’t control the choices that other people make in their lives. Jessie couldn’t control that Tony robbed someone’s home or that he started using cocaine.

• From The Great Believers (2018)

  Yale said, “I’m fine. I’m great.” “I’m sitting here doing the crossword, myself.” “Okay.” “I’ll, ah, I’ll thank you if you can give me a six-letter word for ‘harpy.’ I was sitting here the longest time thinking it said ‘happy,’ but no, it’s ‘harpy.’” His father was the slowest talker in the world, a trait that drove Yale crazy in adolescence. “I got nothing.” “What are you up to these days?” There was no way to answer. Yale hadn’t told him about the breakup, just the move. He’d never even told him he’d left the Art Institute last summer; the AIC was something his father had actually heard of, something he took some mote of pride in, and although surely he’d heard of Northwestern as well, Yale had figured he’d leave well enough alone. He could have talked about the Cubs game, but instead he said, “I’m on my way to a parade.” Because now that his father’s voice was wrapping its way around his right ear, now that going to a ball game would have felt tainted by his father’s approval, it was true: He was going to the parade. “What kind of parade?” “A really gay one, Dad. A big gay parade.” Yale read in his father’s silence a kind of sarcasm. Listen to yourself, the silence said. Do you hear how ridiculous that sounds? Yale said, “So I kind of need to run.” He thought his father would hang up, glad for the dismissal, but instead he said, “Listen, have you been following the news on this disease?” Yale found himself stretching the phone cord to the window just so he could make incredulous eye contact with his own reflection. “No, Dad, I haven’t. What disease would that be?” “It’s—are you being ironic with me? I can never tell.” “You know, the parade is starting. I really have to go.” “Alright then.” — By the time he got to Clark, the route was packed and the first few floats had gone by. He wound his way behind people, looking for someone he recognized. At Wellington he looked for Ross and his friends and their fire escape, but not too hard. After two blocks, he spotted Katsu Tatami across the street, and when a few people ran across behind the Anheuser-Busch float, he crossed too. He didn’t know the guys Katsu was standing with, but Katsu was always good for a hug, an enthusiastic greeting. He had to shout in Yale’s ear: “So far so good! You want my soda?”

• From Bestiary (2020)

  Do you mean we’re enemies? Shaking her head, she said we were many species, many bodies. But what am I becoming? I said. I wondered if she’d ever feared I’d hurt her, if she knew how I’d once tried hunting my father. If I ate her someday, she had to forgive me. Ben said she couldn’t forgive anyone if she didn’t have a body. Can bodies cross into other bodies? Ben said I was always asking the wrong questions. I told her I knew about evolution and finches, knew all the concepts we were taught, but she said my tail wasn’t shaped like a line: It was shaped like a life, circling itself, growing backward from tip to root. The sinks outside were overflowing, flooding us to the ankles, water-rings coiling like snakes. Ben said it didn’t take generations to change, to adapt to a new predator or environment. Sometimes one body could do it. She talked like a scientist of survival. I told her that there was no evolutionary line between tigers and people, and if there was, it still meant I was moving backward. There’s no such thing as forward or backward, she said, her finger circling in the air. There was no such thing as progress, just accumulation: A long time ago, she told me, when a man died of exhaustion while building the Great Wall, the man behind him just bricked his body into the wall and kept going. That’s why it’s studded with skulls, she said. Why it’s shaped like a spine. It’s a burial ground, not a building. I asked her if this story was meant to comfort me. She told me not to worry. We’re not alive. We’re just between deaths right now. She laughed and reached around for my tail: It thrummed like an antenna, broadcasting her touch all over my body. If we stayed in here, she said, and the water kept outgrowing us, what do you think would happen? I told her we’d drown, but Ben said I was wrong. We’d grow gills, she said. Holding open the stall door, she walked me to the sinks, water receding around us. It listened to her feet when she told it to leave. She turned off the faucet, her cage bobbing in the sink. The pendant-key punctuated the center of her chest. Lifting the cage with both hands, she offered it to me. If she unlocked it, I wondered, would the shadow-bird leave? Would we see it flee? Ben said she’d let me hold the cage if I let her see my tail whenever she wanted. When I asked her why, she said, I like what it does to my hand. It behaves like it’s befriended something wild. I said she could steal it from me anytime. In her hands, my tail was potential, a hilt waiting to be drawn from me.

• From Generation Anxiety: A Millennial and Gen Z Guide to Staying Afloat in an Uncertain World (2023)

  Vitamin D: Studies have shown the effectiveness of vitamin D to help manage anxiety, including for those who experience anxious distress in the midst of a depressive episode. 118,119 Symptoms of deficiency include fatigue, bone and back pain, and hair loss. 120 Given that 1 billion people around the world have low vitamin D, with 42 percent of US adults having a deficiency (and even more worrisome, 63 percent of Latinx adults and 82 percent of African American adults), this is one of the most important supplements to pay attention to. 121,122 To improve your vitamin D intake, you should try to be out in the sun for thirty minutes to three hours, depending on the amount of melanin in your body, and by eating foods rich in vitamin D, including oily fish such as salmon and mackerel. 123,124 If you are lacking in vitamin D, taking a vitamin D supplement can be an essential part of your treatment plan, not only for depression and anxiety symptoms, but also to treat other potential symptoms, including frequent illness/infections. And for you potential mamas who are considering getting pregnant: vitamin D can make a big difference in helping you have a healthy pregnancy, as each 10 nanogram per milliliter increase in preconception vitamin D levels has been associated with a 12 percent lowered risk of miscarriage. 125 Given that supplement level recommendations will vary depending on your demographics as well as the time of year, it’s essential to have your bloodwork data as a baseline and to work with a provider for a tailored approach. 2. Vitamin B: There are eight groups of nutrients in the vitamin B family. Here’s a rundown. a. Vitamin B 12 (also called cobalamin): Deficiencies are correlated with paranoia, depression, poor memory, confusion, and fatigue. While about 6 percent of those younger than sixty have a deficiency, about 20 percent of those over sixty aren’t getting enough. 126 By eating fish, chicken, eggs, milk, cheese, and fortified breakfast cereals, you can meet the mark. However, given how many of these foods are not vegan-friendly, it’s particularly important for vegans to rule out a B 12 deficiency— especially if you are noticing brain fog and malaise. b. Vitamin B 1 (also known as thiamin): Most people get these nutrients when they eat whole grains, pork, fish, legumes (such as black beans), nuts, and seeds. However, deficiencies can occur with alcohol dependence, as well as in those living with HIV/AIDS or diabetes, those who are older, and those who have had bariatric surgery. When the body lacks B 1 , you can experience memory loss, muscle weakness, and heart problems, among other symptoms, such as loss of appetite. 127 c. Vitamin B 2 (also called riboflavin): This deficiency is rare, especially if you eat eggs, lean meats, low-fat milk, green veggies, and fortified cereals and bread. However, some people can be deficient, including vegetarian athletes (especially those who avoid dairy and eggs), pregnant and breastfeeding people, and vegans.

• From The Great Believers (2018)

  Their father was high up at United Airlines, and their mother, according to the stories Fiona told, mostly occupied herself with tanning. Brooke announced that she wanted to visit the penguins and polar bears. “Because those are winter animals,” she said. “Hold on,” Yale said to Ashley. “Let me straighten your ears first.” He gently tugged one up and the other down. “Much better,” he said, and the girls giggled and looked smitten. It was his only line for kids, but it always worked. Fiona said “How are you?” and then, as they walked, “I’ve heard contradictory rumors. I mean, I know about Charlie. But I decided I wouldn’t believe anything else till I heard it straight from you.” “Thank you,” Yale said. “That’s refreshing.” “Spill.” The zoo was nearly empty, just a few well-insulated stroller-pushers and a sole jogger. He told her the entire story, more than he’d even told Cecily, in part because there was more to tell now. He told her about the fight at Terrence’s funeral, about Roman, even, and about the circle on the calendar a week and a day ago. He left out the part about Richard’s house. Why make her blame herself when Charlie might have been lying anyway? He said, “Your cousin Debra hates me now,” but left out how much money was involved. He told her about Julian crashing with him. “God, this is depressing,” Fiona said, although she wasn’t talking about Yale’s issues. They were in front of the penguin enclosure and you could hardly see through the grimy glass. “Are they even in there?” “Look, look, look!” Ashley pointed to a small, wilted bird right at their feet. If the glass hadn’t been there, Yale might have walked right over the thing. The girls ran back and forth, trying to get the bird to follow. Fiona said, “So, the intern. You like him?” He knew she was trying to start on the least stressful part of what he’d just told her, but the thought of Roman made him feel as nervous as the rest of it. “Oh God, not really. He’s so young. Not literally, he’s an adult, he’s just young. I’d say it was only sex, but it wasn’t even sex. And even if it were—like, sex is never going to be just sex again.” Fiona laughed. “Welcome to the club.” “I don’t mean emotional stuff.” “Good God, Yale, I don’t either. This is what women have lived with since the dawn of time. Babies can kill you or ruin your life. And all kinds of shit gives you cancer if you’re a woman. A guy, you get some jock itch, they give you a powder. A woman, you get cancer. Or you get something that means you can never conceive, or if you can conceive, your baby goes blind because of something some jackass gave you at senior prom. And it’s not like we can’t get AIDS. It’s not like that’s not an issue. Oh, Yale. What.

• From Generation Anxiety: A Millennial and Gen Z Guide to Staying Afloat in an Uncertain World (2023)

  For some of us, anxiety is a privilege—for others, anxiety is an almost inevitable by-product that emerges as a result of the destructiveness of our society. For example, anxiety can be a privilege when you’re losing sleep at night wondering whether you should go to a school in state or across the country. Or when you’re deciding whether to purchase a house or stay in your apartment for another year. What about choosing between a corporate job and pursuing an entrepreneurial journey? Anxiety is a privilege if you can’t decide how you want to spend your money—but you have enough of it regardless. All are understandable conditions where anxiety may bubble up, but privilege is inherent, to varying extents, in each example. Anxiety is not a privilege when you worry that a bullet will rip through your house because your neighborhood is frequently hit with gun violence. Anxiety is not a privilege when you have to decide between buying groceries, getting gas, and paying your medical bills. Or when you’re scared that Border Patrol could tell you that you need to leave your residence immediately. How about when you’re scared that you may be attacked if you wear a pagri or hijab, because you are trans, or because you appear to be of a certain race or ethnicity? In these situations, anxiety is not a privilege—anxiety is often a given and is a justifiable worry for many. As a cisgender, white, straight, Protestant, socioeconomically stable, housed, well-educated, able-bodied, neurotypical, slim adult woman, I realize that I have had an inordinate amount of privilege in my life thus far. There are so many opportunities that I have had because of my privilege (as well as the privilege that my parents have had, along with the generations before them who were endowed with ample opportunities). Heck, I get to write this book as a psychologist because of the massive amount of privilege that I have had and continue to have. I have been able to afford an education, have a home where I can comfortably write (if sometimes begrudgingly), and eat all the English muffins I can muster that are in plentiful supply in my refrigerator. Indeed, in many ways the anxiety that I have experienced in my life has come from a place of privilege rather than dire need or real danger.

• From The Great Believers (2018)

  He opened the door to the hall and heard a collective silence, as if they were all holding their breath, listening to someone make a speech. Only he couldn’t quite hear the speech. He looked down, but there was no one in the living room. They’d moved somewhere. He came downstairs slowly, not wanting to be startled. A sudden noise would make him vomit. But down in the living room was just the whir of the record, spinning past the last song, the needle arm retired to the side. Beer bottles and Cuba libre glasses, still half full, covered the tables and couch arms. The trays of canapés had been left on the dining table. Yale thought of a raid, some kind of police raid, but this was a private residence, and they were all adults, and nothing much illegal had happened. Probably someone had some pot, but come on. How long had he been upstairs? Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. He wondered if he could’ve fallen asleep on the bed, if it was 2 a.m. now. But no, not unless his watch had stopped. It was only 5:45. He was being ridiculous, and they were out in the backyard. Places like this had backyards. He walked through the empty kitchen, through a book-lined den. There was the door, but it was dead-bolted. He cupped his hand to the glass: a striped canopy, a heap of dead leaves, the moon. No people. Yale turned and started shouting: “Hello! Richard! Guys! Hello!” He went to the front door—also, bizarrely, dead-bolted—and fumbled till it opened. There was no one on the dark street. The foggy, ridiculous idea came to him that the world had ended, that some apocalypse had swept through and forgotten only him. He laughed at himself, but at the same time: He saw no bobbing heads in neighbors’ windows. There were lights in the houses opposite, but then the lights were on here too. At the end of the block, the traffic signal turned from green to yellow to red. He heard the vague rush of cars far away, but that could have been wind, couldn’t it? Or even the lake. Yale hoped for a siren, a horn, a dog, an airplane across the night sky. Nothing. He went back inside and closed the door. He yelled again: “You guys!” And he felt now that a trick was being played, that they might jump out and laugh. But this was a memorial, wasn’t it? It wasn’t the tenth grade. People weren’t always looking for ways to hurt him. He found his own reflection in Richard’s TV. He was still here, still visible. On the back of a chair was a blue windbreaker he recognized as Asher Glass’s. The pockets were empty. He should leave.

• From Fields of Blood: Religion and the History of Violence (2014)

  Heaven was also not omnipotent, because it could not exist without Earth, its divine counterpart. Unlike the Shang, the Zhou exploited the agricultural potential of the great plain on a grand scale, and because Heaven’s influence could be implemented on Earth only through the work of human beings, farming, forest clearance, and road building became sacred tasks that completed the creation Heaven had begun. The Chinese were clearly more interested in sanctifying the world they lived in than finding a transcendent holiness beyond. The Zhou king was supported by a four-tier aristocracy of “gentlemen” ( junzi ); Western scholars have translated their titles as “duke,” “marquis,” “earl,” and “baron.” The shi, children of younger sons and second-class wives, served as men-at-arms but also as scribes and ritual experts, forming an early “civil” wing of government. The Zhou confederacy of more than a hundred small principalities survived until 771, when their western capital was overrun by the Qong Rang barbarians. The Zhou fled to the east but never fully recovered. Yet the succeeding period witnessed not merely the decline of a dynasty but also the decay of the feudal system. The kings remained nominal rulers but were increasingly challenged by the more aggressive “gentlemen” in the principalities, who were casting aside the deference on which feudalism depended. 25 The boundaries of the Chinese states were also shifting. By this time, the Chinese had absorbed several “barbarian” populations, all with very different cultural traditions that challenged the old Zhou ethos. Cities located far away from the traditional centers of Chinese civilization were becoming locally prominent, and by the end of the eighth century, when Chinese history starts to emerge from the mists of legend, they had become capitals of kingdoms: Jin in the north, Qi in the northwest, and Chu in the south. These states ruled thousands of barbarian subjects, whose grasp of Chinese custom was at best superficial. The small principalities in the center of the great plain had now become extremely vulnerable, because these peripheral states were determined to expand. During the seventh century, they broke with tradition and began to mobilize peasants as fighting foot soldiers; Jin and Chu even brought barbarians into the army, offering them land in return for military service. Deeply threatened by these aggressive kingdoms, some of the traditional principalities were also riven by internal conflict. With the decline of the Zhou, public order had deteriorated, and increasingly, brute force was becoming the norm. It was not uncommon for princes to kill ministers who dared to challenge their policies; ambassadors could be murdered and rulers assassinated during visits to another principality. To add to the tension, it seems that there was also an environmental crisis. 26 Centuries of aggressive hunting and land clearance that destroyed animal habitats meant that huntsmen were returning empty-handed and there was far less meat at the bin banquets, so the old carefree extravagance was no longer possible.

• From The Great Believers (2018)

  It might even have smelled like Nico, like Brut and cigarettes. It was Nico’s favorite joke to try to convince people that Carly Simon’s song was about him, about his apricot scarf. “And I am so vain!” he always said. “So you know it’s true!” (“That scarf is not apricot,” Charlie always responded. “It’s orange and gray.” Nico would reply that British men were known to be color-blind.) Yale tried not to look at the clock above the counter. Despite the snow, despite Nora’s obstructive family: If this didn’t happen today, it would be his failure, his embarrassment. It was a magnification of how he felt when he was the one to pick the movie out of the listings: Although he couldn’t control the action on the screen, he was the one who’d set it in motion, and if anyone had a bad time, it was because of him. Instead of simply watching the movie, he’d watch it through Charlie’s eyes, glancing over for the reaction, listening for laughter. And right now he wanted Bill Lindsey thrilled. He wanted to give Roman the experience of a lifetime. He wanted these curious bank tellers to keep watching, with fascination, as art history was made. The snow continued falling in huge, lacy chunks. Roman said, “I’m worried the roads are getting worse.” But just then Debra walked in, wrapped to the eyeballs in a brown coat, a blue scarf. She said, “One of you has to help Stanley unload that wheelchair.” Yale felt something unclench in his lower back, a muscle he hadn’t even felt cramping. Bill went out to the van while Debra talked to a teller, and by the time Stanley and Bill came back through the doors with Nora and her chair, everything was in order. The whole group—Frank hadn’t arrived yet, thank God—followed the teller into the safety-deposit room. “Our counsel is on his way,” Yale said to Stanley. They could proceed without him if need be. But then . . . but then, but then. They started piling their coats on the long table in the middle of the room, but Bill needed it clear for inspecting the work. He handed out the white gloves they’d optimistically brought from the museum. Debra refused hers. Nora wheeled herself up to the table. She said, “This is just ideal, isn’t it? Now we have to tell you, I’ve absolutely bought Debra off.” Debra didn’t respond, just nervously twirled her key ring. Her fingers were red from the cold. Nora said, “There’s more in here than art, and we’ve decided it’s time to hand some of that over.

• From The Great Believers (2018)

  He watched Katsu and Teddy lean on each other. Rafael said, “Nobody’s even listening. Everyone’s so tired of listening.” — There were flowers on his desk in the morning, a bunch of yellow dahlias from Cecily. A note that said, I can never repay you. But before he’d even sat down, Bill was there. He’d brought Yale a coffee, even though Yale already had one. He said, “It seems our friend is on a power trip.” He paused, waiting for Yale to ask what he meant, but Yale didn’t feel like playing along, and eventually Bill cleared his throat and continued. “He’s been to the president, which—I don’t know how everything’s going to play out. I don’t. He’s calling around the board. Not our board, the board. And meanwhile, Frank, Nora’s son, is taking some kind of legal action. I don’t know if he’s fully suing or what, but you have a message from Snow.” “That’s a major waste of his time,” Yale said. “Yes. Yes.” Bill looked past Yale and out the window. “But it’s not great for the gallery. You were so noble, giving him your card and everything, and I wish you hadn’t been. You know I was willing to take the blame.” “I’m the one who messed up,” Yale said. Actually, he’d lain awake last night wondering why the hell he’d done it. For Cecily, of course. But also maybe it was some kind of self-flagellation, a way to punish himself, for—what? Well, everything. Messing around with Roman. Taking the art from Debra and maybe even Fiona. Walking away from Charlie. Evading this disease. It wouldn’t take a genius shrink. How easily he’d brushed off Dr. Cheng’s offer of counseling, his warnings to be careful out there, and here he was. A different kind of reckless behavior. Bill said, “I think if there’s anything you want to finish up with Nora—I mean, personally, since you were the one—I think maybe the next few weeks might be the time to do it. I’m just thinking of timing, in a general way.” “You think I should wrap up my business with Nora.” Yale tried to read his face. “Well, just that you might want to.” “In the next few weeks.” Bill’s thumb worried his chin cleft. “I don’t have a crystal ball. One thought is if I could tell Donovan you’re off the case on this one, so to speak—that I was handling it personally, right? We take you off Nora and see how the rest plays out. And you were done there anyway! But I’d take you off any grant writing related to the show as well. The publicity and so on.” Yale said, “Bill, if I should be tying up loose ends with other situations, it would be in your best interest to tell me.” “Oh! That’s not what I meant!

• From Pleasure Activism (2017)

  Our world inspires a certain level of paranoia. Perhaps it is a measure of intelligence—after all, everyone is being watched and controlled within borders they didn’t determine, exchanging paper someone else told us is valuable for things of actual value, living under a dangerous government since forever. These truths, along with the constant violence and death and ego-based conflict, can make it hard to relax, to rest and sustain ourselves in the longer arc of justice and transformation. So … smoke up. Hot and Heavy Homework Reflect on the pleasures you intentionally practice to soften the physical, emotional, and political pain of modern life. Now. Let me get off this couch. 67 This essay first appeared as adrienne maree brown, “The Pleasure Dome: Weed on, Weed Off,” June 1, 2017, Bitch Media (blog), https://www.bitchmedia.org/article/pleasure-dome-weed-weed.68 Frank Ocean, “Nights,” on Blond (XL Recordings, 2016).69 As a point of vulnerability, I want to share that writing this piece actually made me realize that I had been high in some way since the 2016 election—at least it felt that way. As I wrote these words about taking a break from weed, my body was like “YES LIKE RIGHT NOW.” I took a break, another dip, and have rediscovered a good balance at the time of writing this book.70 I want to emphasize that no one should ever, ever smoke a dollar bill. I am still recovering, twenty years later.71 Harm Reduction Coalition, “Principles of Harm Reduction,” Accessed July 23, 2018, http://harmreduction.org/about-us/principles-of-harm-reduction/.72 Ah, let’s not play games here like this was just one decade. Perhaps that was the low point; only time will tell. In general, I am a high-functioning depressive person. I get extremely hopeless in cycles, I feel restless for the end of everything, and I feel like I need help to see the good, to feel joy. I have come to believe that this is a part of my magic, that I dance with darkness and respect it. I know what it is to need therapy, medicate myself, not be able to get out of bed, and not want to live. And while it isn’t easy, it makes me feel like I can see things whole, and whatever joy I have is grounded in the miraculous and tragic dual nature of the real world.Conditions of PossibilityA Conversation with Monique Tula After years of local level harm reduction work, Monique Tula became the first woman-of-color executive director of the national Harm Reduction Coalition (HRC), working to reduce the harms that come from drug use. I have been honored to facilitate the HRC in this transition, a full-circle moment, as this was my first paid social justice work. Monique and harm reduction are crucial parts of pleasure activism. amb. First of all, can you tell the readers what harm reduction is?

• From The Great Believers (2018)

  I’m not gonna try to fuck you.” Yale asked Roman if he’d thought about going to the Pride parade, which was ten days away. They were starting to sober up; it was three in the morning. “Just being counted matters,” Yale said, and heard how he sounded like Charlie. “Last year we had thirty-five thousand.” Roman rolled toward Yale and grinned, his eyes molelike without his glasses. “You’re saying size matters to you.” “I’m saying we want to top that.” Roman laughed, ran a finger up Yale’s groin. “It’d be good for you. There’s something about seeing some drag queen doing a pole dance in a flatbed right there in the street that makes it easier to go back to work the next day and not worry about being a little faggy.” Not that Yale went to work anymore. “And also—” but Roman sank his teeth into the top of Yale’s ear, moved his hand up his side. “Also, it’s educational.” “You’re educational.” — Yale hadn’t heard from Roman since that night, and meanwhile he’d decided he might not even go to the parade himself. He bought a ticket for the Cubs-Mets game, which wouldn’t start till 3:30 but at least gave him a fairly solid excuse, one he used when Asher called the day before the parade and asked if Yale could lend a hand on the AIDS Foundation of Chicago float. “Actually,” Asher said, “it’s not your hands we want. It’s your cute face. We’re wearing clothes, no Speedos involved. Unless you want to, of course. Who am I to stop you?” Yale would have done just about anything else for Asher, but he couldn’t be in a parade, couldn’t roll down the street past everyone he knew, couldn’t run into Charlie in the staging area. Ross—the redhead who’d been flirting with Yale in the Marina City gym for the past month—said if Yale wanted to hang out, some friends would be watching from a fire escape at Wellington and Clark, with mojitos. Yale didn’t want to lead Ross on, but the setup was appealing. When he first moved to the city he’d been in love with all the fire escapes, kept feeling Audrey Hepburn might appear there with her guitar, her hair wrapped in a towel, that she might sing him “Moon River” and grab his hand and pull him across town. He had a mental list of reasons not to go: He wanted to see Sandberg face off against Gooden. He didn’t want to stand there getting turned on by beautiful shirtless men just to come home and jerk off sadly in the bathroom. He didn’t feel like worrying about how he looked, scanning the crowd constantly for friends and former friends. He did not want to watch the Out Loud float go by.