I don't think the regenerative properties were happening.
The tantalizing promise of miracle cures.
Hello to my long lost Scam Fam!
Have you missed me terribly since you last saw me in the driveway, promising I'd be back just as soon as I picked up a pack of smokes? Sorry (sort of) that I started a new family without you and I like them better now. I have a hot scam for you to make up for my absence, but you'll have to sit through my overly personal excuses first.
I did have a reason for staying away so long. I'd like to tell you it's that I was busy (I was; I continue to be highly important and in demand) or that I was working on something more special than this beloved newsletter (I wasn't; there's nothing more special than feeding you monsters the content you crave). The truth is that I got depressed!
I've dealt with depression on and off for a while; it's not something I talk about a lot even with those who are close to me and certainly not with strangers on the internet, until now at least. It feels simultaneously private and visible; I definitely don't want anyone to know that I am held together tenuously by chewing gum and rubber bands, but I also assume it's apparent to anyone who encounters me that I am held together tenuously by chewing gum and rubber bands, and so are they, and acknowledging it would be like remarking on the oxygen we're all breathing. Also, it's fine! I see a therapist and I medicate and it is mild enough as to not be truly debilitating.
Another big reason I don't talk about depression is that it's so, so boring. To go through and to describe. As a kid, I worshipped the cast of Girl, Interrupted and believed being depressed would give me depth and dark glamour and unlock the cheat code to bagging Jared Leto. Joke's on me! I am still all kinds of regular and shockingly Jared Leto has expressed no interest in me yet which is fine because I'm not even into him anymore.
The way depression manifests in my real life is that everyday tasks — getting groceries, scheduling a haircut, answering texts, leaving my apartment — become exceedingly difficult. Getting ready for bed feels herculean, and I might spend 40 minutes face down on my couch instead of brushing my teeth or filling my limited time on this planet with something I enjoy. Mercifully, my experience of work doesn't change that much, I think because having a job gives me something to focus on and also fear is an amazing motivator and I don't want to get fired.
Which all means my days when I'm depressed are nearly identical to my days when I'm not depressed. The big differences are that when I'm depressed I'm in a sour mood most of the time and that I have very little energy left over once I slog through the extremely minimal yet somehow impossible requirements of my daily life. It means I don't write, which sucks for me, because writing for the most part makes me feel better. It sucks for you because unfortunately there are no other newsletters or things to read online.
I am sorry I've been absentee, and I'm not telling you all this because I want you to worry about me or feel badly; I really am ok, and I wouldn't be describing my emotional state in this newsletter if I wasn't. Like I said, even though my depression is pretty mild, I get a ton of help treating it.
As I understand it, from a medical point of view, treating the kind of depression I have is simple: therapy and medication are proven to be effective in all kinds of ways; sleep, exercise, diet, and other behavioral changes can make a real difference too.
From the point of view of the person who is depressed (me), though, those simple treatments are the equivalent of a rope lowered into a pit. Like, it's for sure the obvious and probably only way out of this bleak place I desperately want to leave, but I'm gonna have to put in effort I'm not sure I'm capable of using and don't really want to expend to climb up on outta here. And then once I have hauled myself out, I'm just back on the regular surface of the earth (which is melting, by the way), the rope I just damn near killed myself climbing wasn't a secret passageway to a superfun Chili's where no one has any problems. On my best day, scheduling a haircut is still kind of a drag.
So sure, the medical recommendation works, but I still want something that requires less work from me and does more for me. That's a trait I share with many of the subjects of my work pal, desk neighbor, and ace reporter Caroline Chen's excellent feature on The Birth-Tissue Profiteers. (Told ya we'd get to the scam.)
There are such intricate layers of shade, it's worth savoring every word of the piece, but here's a lil preview of what's at play:
...disgraced doctors who were recast as salespeople, manufacturers that cloaked themselves in pseudoscience and had few scientists on staff, and clinics that offer to treat conditions like multiple sclerosis or kidney disease without specialized training. Unscientific methods, deceptive marketing, price gouging and disregard for patients’ well-being were rampant across the amniotic stem cell therapy industry.
While many of the patients do have serious medical issues, many of them have ailments like joint pain or dry eye or erectile dysfunction, physical equivalents of low-grade depression — essentially livable discomfort that occasionally borders on misery. You can tolerate it but why should you have to? The doctors and not-at-all doctors selling these treatments promise that, for a price, you don't have to. As one of them put it, “They do everything because stem cells are our friend.”
That was of course before Caroline asked him about the specialists featured on his website, none of whom "were listed on New York State’s license look-up page," and whose "photos were traced back to stock photo websites;" when she did question him about that, "the names and photos vanished from the website."
Honestly, given the choice between paying an imaginary doctor all of my money for a cure that sounds too good to be true and paying a real specialist less but still a lot of money for a treatment that's proven to be effective but less effective than too-good-to-be-true? I mean, the first one sounds a litttttttle more appealing. It also sounds like a solid foundation for a scam.
Thanks for reading this thing I only sort of regret writing. It's an open question whether I'll be in your inbox over the next few weeks, not because of my emotional state, but because like I keep trying to tell you, I am very busy and important. I'll do my best and I'll be back as soon as I can — just gotta get a pack of smokes first.
Scam like you can bend science to your will,
Ruthie
My Week in Consumption: Delicious Food Only
I made this eggplant for a very special occasion; I set off two smoke detectors in the process, but it was worth it.
The Philly Pretzel Factory on Chambers Street is OPEN and I had to stop myself from hugging the person working behind the counter when she gave me my pretzels. Dreams do come true!!!
It took a ridiculous amount of effort to get even a 5:30 reservation at Lilia, but once I did get one, I understood exactly why.