Joshua David Stein

<h1> 1. Theres nothing wrong with me. </h1>

Of course there isnt. While they can be distressing and debilitating, theres nothing wrong with having bipolar disorder, depression, anxiety, or anger issues, or just generally not having your shit together. Its all okay. Whether youre in the middle of a mental-health crisis or a member of the worried well, therapy is a step toward a bigger life. Its about embracing life instead of trying to get through it, says psychologist Edward Adams, Psy.D., president of the American Psychological Associations Society for the Psychological Study of Men and Masculinities.

When you say you dont have time, youre really saying that other things are more important than your mental health, says Columbia University psychiatry professor and New York Citybased therapist Alexander Harris, M.D., Ph.D. If youre too busy for therapy, its worth thinking about what youre currently putting ahead of your wellness. Is being the best you in work, love, and play a priority? Dr. Harris asks. And if not, why not?

<h1> 3. Going to therapy means Im weak. </h1>

Its not 1952 here! Is it weak to go to an accountant for help with your taxes? Or a mechanic for help with your car? Strong is the person who is effective and gets the job done, Dr. Harris says. And hiring an expert in relationship issues or working for career success is taking care of it yourself. Plus, holding in your feelings can be deadly. A lot of men who are suicidal are the silent type, says Adams. They havent told anyone theyre suffering. And that doesnt typically have a happy ending to it.

<h1> 4. I need to spend time on my family, not on myself. </h1>

Therapy can often be an act of care not just for yourself but for the people around you, so you can be a healthy and productive partner, father, brother, uncle, grandfather, manageryou get it. This is one way to man up in your life, and for your family and for your community, says Wizdom Powell, Ph.D., an associate professor of psychiatry at the University of Connecticut.

<h1> 5. I cant be seen coming out of that office. </h1>

While the stigma is eroding, small, nosy towns can still be small, nosy towns. But the Internet can connect you to counseling services like Talkspace, where you exchange text, audio, or video messages with a therapist in a private, confidential chatroom, and your smartphone can get you to free hotlines staffed by volunteers, like the Crisis Text Line (text 741741), where, yes, you communicate only by text messages.

30 B.S. Excuses for Why Guys Don’t Do Therapy

Lets start with what therapy is not. Its not something to feel weird about. Millions of people do it for reasons as serious as having suicidal thoughts and as non-serious as wanting to be a little less grumpy. The era when therapy carried any kind of major stigma started to end when Tony sat down with Dr. Melfi. So lets move on to what it is: Its a space to talk to a professional listener about whatever you want. Its confidential. It takes place behind closed doors with a licensed expert. Whi...

I had lived with myself my entire life. No matter how miserable I was, that misery was me, if that makes sense. And so I didnt seek professional help. Who would I be, I worried, if this clenched mass of mess that was me was dissolved? I was scaredscared of what therapy might reveal, scared to let go of the shore and drift into deep water, scared to have to put into words what I felt.

If I hadnt had kids, Im reasonably certain I never would have gone to therapy at all. But in the midst of what I guess was a mental breakdownlater I learned to call it an episode of emotional dysregulationI tried to commit suicide. It was pretty rough. My wife had our five-year-old son, Achilles, talk to me through our bedroom door. He didnt know what was up, just that something was wrong. And because trying to explain to a five-year-old you love that what youre doing in the bedroom is dangling from the closet rod with a leather belt around your neck is too sad (and also hard to explain with said belt around your neck), eventually I emerged and lived. At that point, seeking help was a matter of life and death for me.

Even then I dithered out of fear. But what scared me more than going to therapy was what not going would mean. The evidence that I was struggling with mental illness was incontrovertible; that it was affecting the people I love was equally uncontestable. Because I have children and love my children, I knew I needed to get help, not for me so much as for them. Im already too messed up to be happy. But my kids deserve happiness and a father who can love and be loved freely. In my bones, the thought that Id pass on to them my unresolved issuesor, rather, the contortions that grew like calluses around those issueswas repugnant.

So I ended up in therapy, talking to a nice lady named Julia. Around me, in that office suite and in adjoining buildings, there were people just like me talking to people just like her. How cliche, I thought, looking at her ready-to-pluck tissues and well-hugged crushed-velvet pillow. But week by week, it felt really good to be able to talk to someone who wasnt furious at me for a decade of craziness, who could see me with compassion and professional compunction. Who cares if I paid her $200 an hour?

After a bit, Julia suggested I might have something called borderline personality disorder, a constellation of symptoms that include suicidal ideations and attempts, uncontrollable rage, impulsive behavior, black-and-white thinkingall traits I had tagged as mine in the coat check of ego. That character I carried and that I called me; that guy who punched walls and flew into rages; that guy who tumble-dried in the cycles of shape: that guy? Not me. Not really. I found I could let that image of who I was go. The more I understood about BPD, the more I understood what triggered what and why. Im not saying that Im not responsible for the suffering to others I caused. I. am. But I didnt have to beat myself up as much as I had.

Unfortunately, theres no medical remedy for BPD, no stop being a crazy dick pill. Since much of the disorder is biochemicalbasically, my mind is hard- wired to think those I love the most are constantly attacking meBPD will be my constant companion. Because its largely genetic, it also might be my bequeathment to my sons, too.

Therapy wasnt enough to save my marriage. Therapy cant make me travel back in time to save my kids their fear or forward to salve their suffering. But what it did, and the reason I am still grateful for the past three years of my life, is that it allowed me to fully know myself. Its like I hadnt fully put my weight on this earth. I was holding part of myself apart, suspended, like a terrified marionette. Now Im here. Im happy in a way I couldnt be before and sad in a way I couldnt be before. Im tender where I was hard, looser where I was tight. And you know what? Im more comfortable admitting, Im scared, and still going to sit on a couch to get to know myself a little better.

Therapy Changed My Life—and I Almost Didn't Do It.

About two years ago, my life started falling apart at an alarming clip. I was marriedspoiler alert: wasand had two young children. We all lived in New York in a too-small apartment, and I was at a point in my career as a writer where things, I thought, should be getting easier, but they werent. Everyone else had a house upstate and a Subaru. What was I doing wrong? I had always had a lot of turmoil with my personal relationships, but as my cohort aged and had kids of their own, I found I had ...

Now quarantined, I, like millions around the world, am confined to close quarters. Very close quarters. Quarters so close they're more like dimes. My domain consists in its entirety at the moment of the bedroom, living room, and kitchen of my Brooklyn apartment. And Ive come to rely on the very screens I so recently disavowed for all of my human interaction. Could screens become my savior? Did I have any other option?

So I quickly backtracked as best I could, delved into the Internet of Things, downloaded a bunch of video-conference apps, and tried to de-island myself through, as Boris Johnson called it from his self-quarantine, the wizardry of modern technology. I was about to embark on a journey to nowhere, to the limits of virtual connection during quarantine and to the very ends of how much screens actually bring us together.

IM AN ACTIVE guy and rely on this physical activity to burn off some of my aggression. Anxiety, which I have in spades at the moment, breeds aggression, and yet my main outlet for its expiation, Brazilian jujitsu, is gone. The dojo closed a few weeks ago and will be closed for the duration of the pandemic. Though my professor has been posting videos of solo drillsas has BJJ mastermind John Danaherwithout rolling Im going a little nuts.

Thankfully, At Home or Virtual Fitness or Whatever You Want to Call It Movement is very of the moment. Theres Mirror and Tonal and Peloton and Tempo and FightCamp and more. Each promises a hard workout at home, guided by instructors with varying degrees of community interaction. But few appealed. The idea of staring into a Mirror in which a very fit instructor is superimposed onto IRL me feels like both an Oscar Wilde setup and an act of self-flagellation. Tonal, a wall-mounted fitness studio, seemed more promising, but my apartments walls are weaker than a pushovers will. Peloton, a bike with a lively social component and a $4 billion company, was a logical choice. But I already have two bikes for normal timea Bianchi for myself and a Yuba for me and the kidsand the thought of a third bike in my life was untenable. I settled on a rowing machine called a <a id="e9081893-09ba-34be-ae39-0bb408c47d8f" href="https://hydrow.com/"> Hydrow </a> .

The author captaining his Hydrow rowing machine.

The company, which launched in 2018, combines the theological approach of Pelotonthere is a fitness god; you must follow this gods workout edictswith the maniacal difficulty of indoor rowing, also called erging. Its a heavy machine and a large one (24 by 86 inches) but can be stored vertically, too. Having rowed in college, I am well familiar with the mechanics of rowinglegs, back, arms; arms, back, legsbut have always, always found those interminable ergs so boring the physical benefits never outpaced the hellish slog. Hydrow, however, comes with a large screen, a roster of photogenic athletes, hundreds of workouts, and, crucially, other rowers whose progress is tracked against your own.

Yes, its true my first act as a quarantee was to get a rowing machine. (He rowed while Brooklyn burned.) But I figured, I think rightly in retrospect, that if I were cooped up with no physical outlet, I would go insane and no amount of screens could pull me back from the brink.

a therapist is just another rectangle on skype

WOKE UP THIS morning and did a 30-minute row in the canals around Miami Beach, which was... weird. Sunny climes in an age of darkness seem profane and yet theres something so uplifting about moving in unison with another person, even if theyre on a screen, even if theyre not live, even if they cant see you, that I got off the erg buoyant, joyful, and sweaty.

Graham M. Jones, an anthropology professor at MIT who studies the intersection of art, culture, and technology, understands. In a time when were spending a lot of time alone, I think many of us are becoming intensely attuned to ways of achieving [kinship] in the absence of proximity.... I think bodies moving in harmonious motion is a powerful engine for human sense of intersubjective connectedness. Also, its hell on my lats.

The buoyancy was much needed, too. As a freelance writer, Im used to solitude. But I hadnt quite realized until now how much the option of meeting a friend for lunch or a source for an interview kept me sane. These past weeks have been busy ones in part because the end of the world yields many interesting stories, from <a id="f79c49a0-4013-38aa-ab10-834353431b3c" href="https://punchdrink.com/articles/big-pivot-distillery-hand-sanitizer-coronavirus/"> distilleries pumping out hand sanitizer </a> to the r <a id="4f1cb09f-c225-3056-aacf-0843ff02bd81" href="https://nymag.com/intelligencer/2020/03/coronavirus-nyc-one-percenters-flee-to-the-hamptons.html"> ich fleeing to the Hamptons </a> . And yet, as I quickly discovered, I yearned to, well, just hang out with someone.

I Hated Tech Pre-Quarantine. Now Its My Lifeline.

To Zoom or to FaceTime or to Hangout or Webex to Skype or... well, its all the same to me, really. I needed a human being. Like any 38-year-old, I called my mom, a seventy-year-old who still says the Google. I FaceTimed through our desktops to her home in California but, weirdly, my sister picked up alongside my nephew. Then my mom called my iPhone, and so then I was talking to my sister on my computer and seeing my mom on the phone, holding one up to the other like child to parent, which they actually are. It was like a mise en abyme of videoconferencing or a Mondrian of those I love. I had not yet realized that I wouldnt see the bottom half of a person for a very long time.

Usually I have therapy on Wednesdays. Well, I used to have therapy on Wednesdays. I quit a few months back, shortly after I wrote a piece for Mens Health, ironically about excuses for quitting therapy. Reason 27 was nonfictionI wanted to sleep with my therapist, it got weird, and I quitand I closed the piece with a line about what to do with that feeling: Sometimes you write about it in an article for Mens Health, then send the clipping to your therapist and see how it all shakes out. (More-expert advice included discussing those feelings of transference with your therapist and working through them.)

The author on a group call with his mom and sister.

At any rate, I had sent the clipping, as I said I would, to my therapist, but silence had shaken from the therapeutic branch. So when I got an email from her asking if I would want a virtual session next week, I was hesitant. But maybe this was our moment? Who knows, but I had nothing else to do, was truly struggling with loneliness and boredom, and so we arranged for a session.

Anyone who has been in therapy well knows the ritual around it: the long ride up the elevator, the purgatory of the waiting room, the slightly out-of-date magazines. Then you are bidden to follow your therapist into their office, the particulars of which soon come to hold totemic significance. Couch means safe space; neutral landscape means I can talk about my father.

Skype therapy, however, is different. With a few beeps and boops, Julia is in my bedroom and I am in her... I dont know... den? There are a few books on a shelf behind her and a neutral green wall. OMG, I thought, what if her home looks just like her office? How would I feel about that?

The fuzziness was made even fuzzier by the fact that I was having therapy in the self-same rectangle in which Ive interviewed <a id="7d2797f5-7ede-3d89-acb8-d2f6130b661d" href="https://nymag.com/intelligencer/2020/03/sex-workers-and-amateurs-try-quarantine-camming.html"> sex workers coping with COVID </a> ; real estate agents and chefs; in which I had so recently chatted with my mother, my kids, and a few friends. All human interaction now took place through the same window, and this clouded the boundaries between them. Is this a meeting? Therapy? A date?

As it was, it wasnt clear to me who was comforting whom during our session. I felt like I was reassuring Julia that everything would be okay more than she was me, but then, just before our time was up, I realized she hadnt actually asked me to comfort her at all. I had done that on my own. Ah, this was the therapeutic insight.

What I had written about being attracted to her went unremarked upon until the very end. Its transference, she said, but it could have been a starting point of a discussion.

I contemplate hitting End Meeting but instead say, Sure.

As I closed the laptop it occurred to me I hadnt really let down my guard for the entire session. In 2004, John R. Suler, Ph.D., at Rider University coined the term online disinhibition effect in <a id="fe740c24-e7cf-3a6f-a9af-1d2a36d7731c" href="https://www.liebertpub.com/doi/abs/10.1089/1094931041291295"> an article </a> for CyberPsychology &amp; Behavior to describe the rather more freewheeling nature of our actions online. People say and do things in cyberspace that they wouldnt ordinarily say and do in the face-to-face world, he wrote. They loosen up, feel less restrained, and express themselves more openly. Suler breaks disinhibition into benign and toxic varietals, but both, he posits, are caused by the same six reasons. Among them are asynchronicity (not having conversations in real time), invisibility (i.e., you cant see me), and solipsistic interjection (It is the Internet. We are one).

For most of what I was doing, few of those factors were present. My appointment with Julia was synchronicitous, visible, and made it very clear that we were not one. But what did apply, I realized, was the minimization of status and authority, the sixth of Sulers factors. Absent the stagecraft of a therapists office, I couldnt hold Julia in enough professional remove to actually open up about the fact that, yes, I am scared for the future and yes, I do worry I shall be undone by the pandemic. I always hated those pillows on her couch. But now, I realized, I relied on them.

So much has been written about how the Internet strips us humans of our humanity, but I was rather findingand perhaps because we all ended up on the Internet after being attacked by a virusthat I was having trouble layering back on the professional identity. Celebrities. Therapists. Late-night talk show hosts. Were all just humans in our living rooms looking at our screens at each other.

ERGED 45 MINUTES in a prerecorded session with an athlete named Sera Moon Busse. Im developing a crush. Maybe a friend? It hardly matters that this is a purely one-sided affair, disregarding time. Also, I realized I hate leaderboards. Its not that Im not competitive but that Im too competitive. Climbing a leaderboard becomes the only metric I care about; meanwhile the water glides past me unnoticed. Anyway, I like just hanging out with Sera, whos from Boston and chirpy and definitely a jock.

And this all brings to mind, on hump day, the accommodations that must be made for the flesh. Im a single guy, newly divorced, down to party. The one area of my life, pre-COVID, exempted from the digital fatwa was dating. Online dating is so predominant these days, it felt oddly aggressive to try to start relationships in person. Before the virus, a common trope on Hinge and Tinder was Im not looking for a pen pal. Now pen pals are all there are. But oh boy, what epistolary fun.

It turns out everyone is bored. Former flames have been reaching out, goaded by a mixture, I imagine, of death-doorstep regret (maybe I was the one?) and boredom. Ive been racily WhatsApping with an ex-girlfriend living in Belgium. Thanks to the time difference, I wake up to steamy shots in Bruges. I also scheduled a Zoom Hinge date with a Russian lady Ive met IRL just once for coffee, back in the days when one did that kind of thing.

Hey, I messaged, wanna grab a drink on Zoom? She used an emoji of a smiling face winking to say yes. I suggested we get dressed up because I hadnt changed out of sweatpants in a few days and felt myself inching ever closer to looking like Cathy. So I threw on a dress shirt and blazer, poured myself a glass of Dalmore, and dialed in. I didnt, however, change pants, because what I realized after three days is lower bodies are immaterial in this quarantine world.

After a few chirps I found myself peering at her on my screen. It was... fun. Strange. Again, I couldnt quite get the rhythm right in my mind: Was this a meeting? A date? Therapy? Ive been so conditioned by office life that the thought of flirting over teleconferencing software raises howls from my own internal HR department. So she drank wine and I whisky. She did her nails and I watched. We talked about SEO search terms, which still are a mystery to me. I eagerly awaited Sulers online disinhibition effect, but if anything I felt more constrained. In a chat with MH advisor Gregory Scott Brown, M.D., a psychiatrist in Austin, Texas, he said that was natural. We rely on human touch and cues for how to behave. Interacting purely online takes those away from us.

The thing about a Zoom date is that it is more effortless to end than an in-person date and yet more difficult, since theres no naturally occurring terminus. Its not like either one of us has anything to do. There was no meal to finish. Also, theres nowhere to go after. Signing off feels like a defeat but a tender one.

That night I read an article about virtual wine parties using an app called Houseparty, online DJ sessions on Instagram and Facebook, and I feel, I hate to say it, left out. Are my friends having house parties without me on Houseparty? Is there a Webex meeting with everyone else in it?

I pour myself some more Dalmore and drift to sleep.

ITS RAINING TODAY and the forecast says itll rain forever. If Noah had the Weather Channel, I bet he would have been even more bummed. Thankfully in Miami its all sunshine and naivete. Up until now Ive been doing prerecorded workouts on Hydrow, but there are live classes, too. I tune in to one led by Nick Karwoski, tall and handsome golden-retriever-type chap, equal parts Adonis and Optimist. Joshuadavidstein, he says when I join. Full name, bro. I like it. I blush on my rower. I feel seen. Its a 30-minute sweat with high-intensity intervals in the middle third. And its live, so Nick sometimes mentions how strange things are out there in Miami.

Out there. I havent been out there in a long time but it feels somehow comforting that out on Indian Creek, where Nick is, the same laws of fluid dynamics hold and the same numberssplits, a measure of power, and strokes per minute, a measure of speedremain the sole focus of the workout. The sequencedrive the legs, swing the upper body, follow with the armsstays simple enough to repeat and, in a world with so much else up in the air, graspable. Im on the water but grounded.

Afterwards, Im hungry but running low on options. Even though Ive written a handful of cookbooks, Ive never been a big home cook myself. Im a restaurant guy and get off on the frisson of a packed dining room. All thats gone now. For the last couple of days, Ive been working through my stash of frozen berries, whey protein, and milk. But a man cant live on protein shakes alone. Thankfully, as part of my general quarantine freak-out, I got a <a id="78f62f8c-fd99-3039-af58-1f3734657b7a" href="https://thermomix.com/tm6/"> Thermomix TM6 </a> , a German-made everythinger. It braises. It sautes. It chops. It makes ice cream and butter and has a score of other functions. Its about the size of a Wheaten terrier and looks like a spaceship. Theres a screen, so my kids think they can watch television on it, which they cant. Of course, theres also an app and, like every other T from the IoT, a community associated with it. I used to scoff at these brands and their communities, as if every appliance or service we downloaded warranted its own planned development with security gate, rec room, and social events. But isolated, I find myself more susceptible these days. Cookidoo, the deeply sillily named app, has thousands of recipes to choose from submitted by both testers and, I guess, Cookidooers (Cookidooes? Cookidooks?). Because all my tomatoes are mushier than a rom-com and must be used, I select a recipe for creamy tomato soup and turn the dial to blend.

Then I tune in to a live class on Facebook about no-knead bread making, which I need. The lady, named Lynette, walks me through making hot cross buns, an Easter specialty. Bread making, once a gnomic endeavor, has been simplified to knob twisting. The whole thing is so easy it almost feels like cheating. Like, cooking should be more than following the chimes and terse Germanic direction of a cheery lady named Lynette, but the tomato soup is damn good and my buns, when the buns emerge from my oven, are tight.

I know Im not supposed to, but I dip my hot cross buns into my tomato soup and read T.S. Eliot before I go to bed. April is the cruellest month, he writes, breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire, stirring / Dull roots with spring rain. Eliot is right but March aint been too great, either.

IF ELISABETH KUBLER-ROSS got a quarter every time someone used her five stages of grief in a non-death setting, shed be a gazillionaire. (Instead the author of On Death and Dying died in 2004 in a nursing home in Scottsdale.) But she was on to something. After cataloging five days straight of these quarantine routines, I woke up with a certain philosophical acceptance of my isolation. Uncertainty faces us and we FaceTime it. My ex-wife, who is immunocompromised, is just a few blocks away but, as a precaution, I havent seen her in days, which means I also havent seen my kids in days. They exist to me as chopped and screwed pixels who, mostly, dont want to have convos with their DaddyPoops on their iPads, and I dont blame them. I think back to what Dr. Brown told me about physical presence. I think about how I havent touched another human being many days now. And I realize now how much I connect to my kids not by talking but by roughhousing or tousling their hair or justif you have kids who are six and eight, youll knowthe sheer amount of physical contact that transpires over a day. Even if they did want to talk to me, which they dont, Id miss that.

This morning, I meditated for the first time in a few days. Theres a joke that a Buddhist is always doing one of two things: meditating or feeling bad about not meditating. Now, when Ive needed the most mental stability, Ive found it harder than ever to get onto the cushion. Today, I recommitted to the practice. As a Buddhist, I have taken refuge in the three jewels: the Buddha, as a model; the dharma, his teachings; and the sangha, the community. The first two are a cinch but the third is hard to come by, especially now. Downloaded dharma talks have helped me get through these daystheyre in steady rotation along with Brian Lehrer, David Berman, and this epic <a id="c72dc487-aed9-31b3-a9bf-c7c8ea14bc9c" href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0WXd7VojjymjXuC0hqAUXp?si=kVtxz4cDT1eSLYzZh7aovQ"> Spotify mix my friend made </a> but to be able to sit with others is profoundly meaningful. In terms of mindfulness, I have nothing against apps like Headspace or MNDFL, but for me, my sangha is pretty specifically tied to a tradition and a Zendo. Like most houses of worship, my local Zen Center offers Zoom sits and services in the morning, from 7:15 a.m. onward. So instead of rowing, I practice stillness, knowing that in other parts of the world, others are sitting with me. By not doing anything but sitting still, of course, the lively chatter of fear and anxiety soon fills my mind. I nod to them and let them leave again. This repeats for the next 20 minutes but I know the letting go is the practice.

After the closing chant, I shut the laptop and spend some time on the cushion, contemplating whats called prattyasamutpda, or interdependent arising. Day after day in self-isolationthe start of a new normal for however long social distancing may lasthas left me more aware of both my aloneness and my connection with others than Ive ever felt before. Have the screens saved me? Have they damned me? Neither, really. The screens have been a mirror in which my own strengths and frailties have been reflected pretty accurately.

Some day, longer away than I wish but sooner than perhaps it might feel, we will be loosed from our quarantine and back into the world. These screens, I hope, will fade back into their proper importance with face-to-face interactionswhat I miss so muchreestablishing themselves. But its also into a new world we will be released. And for me, thats one in which screens no longer are an enemy but can be portal too. Another way to be with those we love and miss. Another way to be present.

I get off the cushion, wiggle my toes until they wake up, then I walk the few feet to my Hydrow. I strap in and start rowing. It feels good to move together, to realize, screen or no screen, seen or not seen, were all in the same boat together.

I Hated Tech Pre-Quarantine. Now It’s My Lifeline.

JUST BEFORE COVID-19 came and made egg salad of the world, I took the principled but in retrospect foolish step of removing myself from all social media. The worldmy world, particularlyhad become too mediated by screens. Life, I felt, was happening inside the enclosed porch but I was on the wrong side of it, like a mosquito trying to get in. I yearned for likes and ached for followers. I had surrendered my sense of direction to GPS and my sense of self to algorithms. So I ...

I Shunned Technology Pre-Quarantine. Now It’s My Only Lifeline.

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Joshua David Stein

Articles written by the author

30 B.S. Excuses for Why Guys Don’t Do Therapy

Therapy Changed My Life—and I Almost Didn't Do It.

I Shunned Technology Pre-Quarantine. Now It’s My Only Lifeline.