A main theme in the book is that everyone suffers from death anxiety. Extreme death anxiety. And although it's extreme for everybody, for some people it's EXTREME. Since none of us can handle the idea of our finite existence, we all develop defense mechanisms that perpetuate a state of denial.
We're all in denial of our inevitable death.
I'm a CPA. My job requires me to have professional skepticism, and since I read a lot of this book at work, I wasn't totally buying what Irvin was putting down. This happens to me a lot. I'll read a book that makes broad, general claims about the human condition, and I will (A) believe the claims are correct, but (B) believe that I'm an exception. So I was in denial about my denial.
I've never shied away from contemplating my own death, and when I do contemplate it, I usually don't feel the fear. The process of dying sounds horrible because I don't like shark bites, but the ultimate result of death is non-existence. I didn't exist before I was born, and I got through that pretty good. Matter of fact, I think I handled it like a champ.
But the more I've read the book, the more Yalom's either convinced me or brainwashed me that he's right. Even though I don't feel the fear of my own death very often, I'm now convinced that deep down I'm totally fucking terrified of it. And as I reexamine my actions and attitudes toward existence and death, I see that they belie the fact that I'm constantly shitting my existential pants.
Why? Because I know with 100 percent certainty that I'm going to die. Or as Irvin says, "Death itches all the time."
I lift weights. I've been doing it for fifteen years, five days a week. I rarely skip a workout, and when I do it bugs me big time. I've tried to figure out where my drive comes from. I'm an accountant, so I don't have any practical need for physical strength. It wasn't to impress my now-estranged wife. She always said she was good with how I looked, and I believed her. Was I trying to impress other women? If I was, it wasn't a conscious motivation. Was I trying to impress men? Maybe. Dudes comment on my physique a lot more than women do.
A couple years ago, I devoured the book The Moral Animal by Robert Wright. In it he said, "People in all cultures worry about social status (often more than they realize)," and that we all have "a thirst for social approval." So I started to think that my commitment to lifting weights came from my very human drive for social status, and I still think there's a lot to that.
But now that I've read Existential Psychotherapy, I'm totally convinced that lifting weights (and exercising in general) is part of my defense mechanism against the crushing reality of my ultimate death. As long as I'm getting stronger or at least maintaining a higher-than-average level of physical fitness, then I'm not dying. A faint and less-than-rational thread of my inner dialog is that weaker people, less fit people, are the people who die, but not me.
I don't seem able to escape this fitness delusion even though it's obviously bullshit. First off, I'm not that fit, and I eat like shit. Second, I know I'm going to die regardless of my fitness level. Also it's pretty clear that this defense mechanism won't last. Eventually I'm going to age to the point where I can't keep lifting or running or riding the exerbike or mall walking or doing whatever water aerobics does. This particular source of denial has an expiration date.
But the fitness delusion also reveals my primary defensive strategy: If I'm making progress, I'm holding death at bay; to stop growing is to start dying.
Now I understand why I've always had a high need for achievement. Every time I achieve something, I prove to myself that I'm not dying. Achievement is growth. Stagnancy is death. When I'm not pursuing a goal, I feel like a zombie, like I'm just waiting for death.
I blog to feel not dead. That's why I always want to blog more than I do. Sometimes I think I don't want to die until I've gotten all my ideas down on paper. More likely, as long as I have more ideas to get down on paper, I feel like I'm not going to die. More denial.
And now I'm questioning how much my denial tactics have caused the failure of my marriage. Irvin Yalom says, "For some ... commitment carries with it the connotation of finality, and many individuals cannot settle into a permanent relationship because it would mean 'this is it,' no more possibilities, no more glorious dreams of continued ascendancy." To me marriage feels static, like a destination that you can't leave, like a place where growth is misaligned with consistency; therefore, it impedes my denial of death. It prevents me from scratching my death itch.
It's far too simple to think this is the only factor contributing to the breakdown of my marriage, but it's also obvious that I can't fully engage in a permanent relationship until I figure out how it can be an engine for my personal growth despite it's inherent finality.
A couple years ago, I devoured the book The Moral Animal by Robert Wright. In it he said, "People in all cultures worry about social status (often more than they realize)," and that we all have "a thirst for social approval." So I started to think that my commitment to lifting weights came from my very human drive for social status, and I still think there's a lot to that.
But now that I've read Existential Psychotherapy, I'm totally convinced that lifting weights (and exercising in general) is part of my defense mechanism against the crushing reality of my ultimate death. As long as I'm getting stronger or at least maintaining a higher-than-average level of physical fitness, then I'm not dying. A faint and less-than-rational thread of my inner dialog is that weaker people, less fit people, are the people who die, but not me.
I don't seem able to escape this fitness delusion even though it's obviously bullshit. First off, I'm not that fit, and I eat like shit. Second, I know I'm going to die regardless of my fitness level. Also it's pretty clear that this defense mechanism won't last. Eventually I'm going to age to the point where I can't keep lifting or running or riding the exerbike or mall walking or doing whatever water aerobics does. This particular source of denial has an expiration date.
But the fitness delusion also reveals my primary defensive strategy: If I'm making progress, I'm holding death at bay; to stop growing is to start dying.
Now I understand why I've always had a high need for achievement. Every time I achieve something, I prove to myself that I'm not dying. Achievement is growth. Stagnancy is death. When I'm not pursuing a goal, I feel like a zombie, like I'm just waiting for death.
I blog to feel not dead. That's why I always want to blog more than I do. Sometimes I think I don't want to die until I've gotten all my ideas down on paper. More likely, as long as I have more ideas to get down on paper, I feel like I'm not going to die. More denial.
And now I'm questioning how much my denial tactics have caused the failure of my marriage. Irvin Yalom says, "For some ... commitment carries with it the connotation of finality, and many individuals cannot settle into a permanent relationship because it would mean 'this is it,' no more possibilities, no more glorious dreams of continued ascendancy." To me marriage feels static, like a destination that you can't leave, like a place where growth is misaligned with consistency; therefore, it impedes my denial of death. It prevents me from scratching my death itch.
It's far too simple to think this is the only factor contributing to the breakdown of my marriage, but it's also obvious that I can't fully engage in a permanent relationship until I figure out how it can be an engine for my personal growth despite it's inherent finality.
