A Jewish psychologist, Viktor Frankl, once presented human beings seek out pleasure to distract from lack of purpose.
Considering that idea really ruins my thorough enjoyment of mindless FB games. I’d prefer to hold to Freud’s theory (even if he has been largely disproved recently) that pleasure feeds some aspect of our psyche in a healthier way than it would be fed if left to its own devices. See, with Freud, I get pretty colors, angry birds, and justification.
With Frankl, I get no competition for digital medals (or bragging rights when I finally get the gold), no FB, and an active expectation of personal responsibility.
And I’d like to chunk the theory purely for convenience and comfort’s sake, but Frankl argued this point to his fellow concentration camp prisoners. They not only listened; they stopped committing suicide.
Imagine. Such oppressive, constant conditions, surrounded on every side by barbed wire and people who literally wish for reasons to kill – and finding peace, value in one’s existence. And this is where it becomes personally challenging for me to dismiss Frankl: he didn’t tell his fellow captives not to commit suicide.
He said if the person wanted to die, fine. Let your captors kill you. Because if someone decides to take their own life, that’s their choice. But taking the life of another removes the choice completely.
It’s the removal of choice which makes what would be just another tragic statistic into a noteworthy sacrifice.
Several conversations about one’s right to choose to die have happened around me recently. Given my mom’s health and my inability to stay away from weightier life topics, I can see why, but I never thought I’d be the lightning rod for that particular topic.
The first happened one sunny day at a train station.
A friend of mine, his partner, and I waited for our ride when she began ruminating about how her life would turn out, what would happen when she started to age. She presented the current reality of many elderly, trapped in breaking down bodies inside timeworn buildings which smell of antiseptic, powdery skin, and fading life. Imagine, she said, hushed and horrified, being unable to feed yourself, or go to the bathroom by yourself.
I thought of my mom, whom I’d helped do both of those things earlier that day, and just nodded. It’d be incredibly hard, I’d think, I said, but if my mom made that choice, I would be very sad.
There’s a secret understanding between my mom and me, something we’ve not ever really stated but know, about the final time my lifelong struggle with depression made me suicidal. All I wanted from life was go to be able to close my eyes and never open them. What I was given was a weekend of shopping with a bunch of my mom’s girlfriends.
Six of us stayed in a single hotel room near the world’s largest flea market. The first night, one of the women passed out postcards and told us to write our names on whichever we felt most reflected our personalities. I picked can can dancers featured in a decidedly a Parisian jolie vibe.
Then we passed the cards, each writing one thing we most wish we could tell the person the card represented. The comments were unsigned, all sorts of ink and feminine scrawl covering the backs by the time the cards returned to their owners.
I knew my mom’s handwriting and looked for her comment first. In pink ink, her pretty handwriting said, “If you were gone, I would be very sad.”
From that weekend, whenever moments pressed keenly but words wouldn’t convey feelings, we would say that to each other. I still have the postcard.
I can’t imagine what my mom deals with. Her body works, and then doesn’t. Every experience has to be wrestled away from a tired body which craves unconsciousness every moment. She forgets, then remembers in pieces.
If now most see through a glass darkly, then she sees now through a mosaic, with tiles constantly changing shape and size.
And yet, she chooses to remain. Still.
I suspect out there somewhere, if Viktor Frankl heard of this story, he'd appreciate Mom's unique situation and her unquestionably worthy, hard response. And if she were gone, we could be sad together.
Considering that idea really ruins my thorough enjoyment of mindless FB games. I’d prefer to hold to Freud’s theory (even if he has been largely disproved recently) that pleasure feeds some aspect of our psyche in a healthier way than it would be fed if left to its own devices. See, with Freud, I get pretty colors, angry birds, and justification.
With Frankl, I get no competition for digital medals (or bragging rights when I finally get the gold), no FB, and an active expectation of personal responsibility.
And I’d like to chunk the theory purely for convenience and comfort’s sake, but Frankl argued this point to his fellow concentration camp prisoners. They not only listened; they stopped committing suicide.
Imagine. Such oppressive, constant conditions, surrounded on every side by barbed wire and people who literally wish for reasons to kill – and finding peace, value in one’s existence. And this is where it becomes personally challenging for me to dismiss Frankl: he didn’t tell his fellow captives not to commit suicide.
He said if the person wanted to die, fine. Let your captors kill you. Because if someone decides to take their own life, that’s their choice. But taking the life of another removes the choice completely.
It’s the removal of choice which makes what would be just another tragic statistic into a noteworthy sacrifice.
Several conversations about one’s right to choose to die have happened around me recently. Given my mom’s health and my inability to stay away from weightier life topics, I can see why, but I never thought I’d be the lightning rod for that particular topic.
The first happened one sunny day at a train station.
A friend of mine, his partner, and I waited for our ride when she began ruminating about how her life would turn out, what would happen when she started to age. She presented the current reality of many elderly, trapped in breaking down bodies inside timeworn buildings which smell of antiseptic, powdery skin, and fading life. Imagine, she said, hushed and horrified, being unable to feed yourself, or go to the bathroom by yourself.
I thought of my mom, whom I’d helped do both of those things earlier that day, and just nodded. It’d be incredibly hard, I’d think, I said, but if my mom made that choice, I would be very sad.
There’s a secret understanding between my mom and me, something we’ve not ever really stated but know, about the final time my lifelong struggle with depression made me suicidal. All I wanted from life was go to be able to close my eyes and never open them. What I was given was a weekend of shopping with a bunch of my mom’s girlfriends.
Six of us stayed in a single hotel room near the world’s largest flea market. The first night, one of the women passed out postcards and told us to write our names on whichever we felt most reflected our personalities. I picked can can dancers featured in a decidedly a Parisian jolie vibe.
Then we passed the cards, each writing one thing we most wish we could tell the person the card represented. The comments were unsigned, all sorts of ink and feminine scrawl covering the backs by the time the cards returned to their owners.
I knew my mom’s handwriting and looked for her comment first. In pink ink, her pretty handwriting said, “If you were gone, I would be very sad.”
From that weekend, whenever moments pressed keenly but words wouldn’t convey feelings, we would say that to each other. I still have the postcard.
I can’t imagine what my mom deals with. Her body works, and then doesn’t. Every experience has to be wrestled away from a tired body which craves unconsciousness every moment. She forgets, then remembers in pieces.
If now most see through a glass darkly, then she sees now through a mosaic, with tiles constantly changing shape and size.
And yet, she chooses to remain. Still.
I suspect out there somewhere, if Viktor Frankl heard of this story, he'd appreciate Mom's unique situation and her unquestionably worthy, hard response. And if she were gone, we could be sad together.
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