Turtles All The Way Down

I always enjoyed the Green Brothers. I remember watching their informative videos during high school for various classes. Their ability to make learning fun and accessible is something I've always admired, and I was a huge fan of John Green's YA novels during my adolescence.

That said, I didn't think I'd be revisiting John Green in adulthood, but I reluctantly did. I joined a virtual book club that never fully made it off the ground, but the first book that was chosen by the group was Turtles All The Way Down.

I didn't know what this book was about, just that the author was familiar to me. To be honest, I went into it very uncertain. I was almost irritated that this was the book that was chosen. I pretentiously felt there certainly must have been more mature options for us to read. I wasn't sure if this book was something I would enjoy, and I definitely voted for something different to read that month. But alas, this book was the winner, and I would comply.

I was eager to make friends and communicate with others my age, which is something I seldom get to do due to the nature of my remote employment. In 2021, I moved to an unfamiliar place with a drastically small population and a culture that does not mirror the one that I know. A lot of times I feel like a loner and an outcast, welcomed only by faces I know in avatars and profile pictures, which is suitable enough for the time being.

Now, the book club didn't end up meeting even once. My dreams of connecting with new friends didn't come true. And if I'm being honest, I didn't even do the first reading when it was scheduled. It was canceled last minute with no plans to schedule the next meeting, but I paid for the thing, so I decided to dive into the prose anyway and see what the book was all about.

Turns out, I couldn't put the damn book down.

While the mystery component of this novel was compelling, that is not the reason it captivated me so. It was the detail Green put into his depiction of mental health and downward spirals that had me on the verge of tears. The familiarity of his main character's feelings and the way he wrote them were something I knew so well.

The way he employs the second person point of view, talking to the reader, telling them what they are experiencing through his protagonist, putting them in his main character's shoes. Though I'm not a teenage girl and my "invasives" are not based around infections, I was able to become Aza through his descriptions.

I empathized with the way she would spiral out of control. I felt what she was feeling. I watched the scenes play out through my own eyes. Checking the bandaid. Sanitizing. Putting a new bandaid on. Checking it again. Picking at it. Obsessively worrying about this wound she tried to hide, a wound that would not heal; an incredible metaphor for mental illness.

My "invasives" spiral out of control when I think about death. It's a truly vicious cycle. I debated writing this out of fear to bring myself to that place, but that place is a wound that will not heal, talking about it won't make it any worse than it already is, and hiding its existence will not make it any less real.

I know I will die one day, but that fact is something I am not willing to accept. I hope that with time and age, I come to find that acceptance, but it's hard for me to wrap my head around the concept of non-existence. All the familiar slogans such as "It'll be just like before you were born!" or "Accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior and find eternal life!" do not do anything for me. They do not bring me comfort in this existential dread.

We live in a day and age where so much information is available to us thanks to the wonder that is the internet. I can Google just about any question and get an answer, and I'm a curious person, so I Google a lot. However, there is one thing I will only find the answer to once, and that uncertainty keeps me up at night.

Where does our consciousness go when we die?

When I think about the size of the Universe, my chest begins to tighten. My breathing becomes shallow. I become small, insignificant, and meaningless. It's not just my death, but the death of everything I know and love. The death of humanity itself. When the Earth is swallowed up by the sun some trillions of years from now, how will we let the Universe know we were here?

How will we memorialize the wonders of our creation? Civilization. Cities. Artworks. Architecture. Love. Heroes. Sacrifice. Honor. The beauty of consciousness and the human spirit is indescribable. The things we have achieved on our small blip in the timeline are insurmountable. Our existence is a miracle in itself. Amazing. Wonderous. Unreal. I mourn its inevitable loss and curse myself for not having any power to stop it from happening.

Why? Why do we do what we do? Why do we exist? Why must we stop existing? Questions, playing on repeat, plaguing me. Questions with no answers. Infuriating. Impossible. Unrepentant. Intruding my mind, over and over again. Spiraling, like the ceiling fan above my head. Round and round it goes. Unlike a ceiling fan, I can't willingly turn it off. It decides when the show is over. I have no control.

The fear of death and destruction of the Universe then causes panic attacks that lead me to believe I am actually dying.

Vertigo. Increased heart rate. Erratic breathing. Lightheadedness. Tunnel vision.

Heart attack? Aneurysm? Stroke?

I make sure my left arm isn't hurting. I have to be certain there is no radiating pain permeating from bicep to chest. I look at my eyes in the mirror to make sure my pupils are the same size. I put my arms out in front of me to make sure one isn't sagging. I sniff the air to be positive that I cannot smell burnt toast. If I do, I make sure it's because my partner is, in fact, making toast. Delusional. Paranoid. Stuck. It's terrifying. Nauseating. Even if I'm not dying, I then begin to worry that I will simply worry myself to death.

When I read Turtles All The Way Down, despite my loneliness, I felt less alone. While mine and Aza's feelings are not "normal," per se, it's comforting to know I am not the only person who experiences these reeling emotions. While distressing, they are not impossible to deal with, though it would be nice if they didn't "invade" my life on a constant basis.

John Green put to words something I had never read before. He made a point to put the reader in the driver's seat through second-person narration. He wanted people to know exactly what intrusive thoughts feel like, and he did it well.

While a book written for teenagers, I found so much value between the pages, even as a 20-something adult. This coming-of-age story depicts a strong protagonist going through the turmoil of adolescence with her best friend by her side as they try to discover the mystery of Russell Pickett's disappearance. It deals with class divide, the intricacies of first loves, and the importance of friendship. But the most important part of this book for me is its honest, vulnerable, relatable depiction of mental illness.