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Copyright (C) 2008-2009 David B. Axelrod |
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HELPFUL LINKS |
HOW
TO FIND HOPE WHILE KICKING AND SCREAMING David
B. Axelrod We hit it off as
much as anything because, one night, walking on a moonlit street in That worked for a while, but then it seemed as if every conversation I initiated that bespoke our successes wound up an argument about whether life had a meaning. Any intimation that life, in fact, might be pretty good, ended badly. Our life views were growing apart. It was then that a friend loaned me a book--just what I needed--entitled Born to Win. "Self-actualization" was a hot thing then. The premise was that we are playing out a part—living a script—that in fact might not be the role we really wanted to play. Rather, we might have had that script imposed on us by our religion, some sense of duty, our parents or a random event. The idea was to rewrite the script to get more bang for the buck—enjoy life more. I didn’t think it incompatible with my belief that life had no meaning. At least I could enjoy the meaninglessness more! It seemed like a good idea, however, to buy my own copy, particularly because my friend had already done some of the worksheet exercises. I was embarrassed to find, on one page, a diagram of what parts of his body he thought were good or bad or ugly. I certainly wasn’t going to superimpose my own diagram. Off I went, without telling my girlfriend that I was going. In fact, first I hid the loaner copy under some papers in my study like a kid who hides a porn magazine from his parents. If she found me with a book that suggested life was good it would be as if she caught me cheating on her. Hope was just not something nihilists did. Survive, maybe. Duck blows. As I’ve said, I didn’t think I was a loser. “Winner,” however, was philosophically, a bit too strong a term for me until that time. Still, something in me was ready. Perhaps it was the simple recognition that admitting I was a winner might actually make me feel good. I liked that—the feeling good thing. All the self-help books in a row. So many gurus, so little time. But the book was nowhere to be found. I forced myself to find a clerk. My mystical self said "If it’s not there, it’s not meant to be." My rational self said, "Bullshit. Buy the book." And there was the young woman at the Orders Desk, all busy with her Books in Print, processing special orders. I was amazed how I moved toward her, somewhat sideways, as a crab walks in that wonderfully paradoxical way, at once at an angle and directly. "Do you have Born to Win?" I asked her softly. "Boring Wind," she repeated, dutifully reaching for the mouse to cue up a search. I don’t know why I found it difficult at that moment to say the title. I do know I was ever so self-conscious. It was as if I were revealing something deep, personal and worse, taboo about myself. How I could I allow this young woman to see me like this. She’d think me a fool, or less a man for needing to buy such a book. "Born to Win," I struggled to speak, conscious of my even blushing. "If it’s not on the shelf, it may be sold out," she answered in too matter-of-fact a voice. Clearly she was in no way conscious of the monumental changes taking place before her. She handed me a form to fill out for the book to receive a notice when the my order came. I gave my office phone number so a call wouldn’t come to the house. God (whom nihilists reject) forbid my girlfriend should get the call, hear the title and find out I had betrayed her. Some young girl calling, "Is that handsome man there who ordered a book? He’s such a winner!" Horrors! So that’s how it came to pass that I found hope. Kicking and screaming, no. A great internal struggle, however, to buy such a positive-sounding book. A great deal of pleasure reading it. Like most self-help books, the effects were dramatic, life-changing, mostly impermanent. I did see so many elements of a drama being played out within my own life which I otherwise might not have noticed. I even recognized family scripts—mother’s, father’s, brother’s—which they had imposed on me. Mind you, I don’t get a penny for recommending that book, but it did help. I even secretly confessed to feeling like a winner and enjoyed a smile. As for my girlfriend, she wound herself tighter and tighter into her own drama. One day I asked her why, with all we had—brains, graduate degrees, the potential for successful careers—she was still so angry and unhappy? Maybe, I suggested, life was not so bad. It took many months more, but that was the beginning of the end for the relationship. Hope, it turns out, stole me away. I like to think, however, that I won. |