I hate it when people say, “My therapist says…” I don’t know why, it just kind of irks me. It’s like the person is announcing something. “Not only am I privileged enough to afford therapy but I’m taking it for granted that you know that I’m in therapy. I’m skipping the formality of introducing it, like saying, for instance, ‘Did you know that I’m in therapy? Well, I am and my therapist told me…'” Anyway, it just bothers me.
So, there’s this guy that I pay to listen to me talk about my problems for forty-five minutes once a week and he observed that I’m trying to find answers to some existential questions. There are basically two questions. Here they are.
- When am I going to die?
- Am I living in a way that justifies having a life until then?
Perhaps it’s pompous to describe some very basic human questions as existential but I’m going with it. Besides, it sounds more profound than it is because these larger questions always manifest themselves in small anxieties.
Let’s start with the first one. When am I going to die? The death of my parents made me aware of the reality of my own death. I’m next. If that sounds macabre, well, I’m guessing you have living parents or grandparents. I, however, am a name just dangling at the end of a family tree and, below that name, the year 1977, a hyphen, and a space. I have no more illusions. One day that date will be filled in.
This is at the root of my hypochondria – my greatest and most annoying source of anxiety. Every physical ailment could potentially be the beginning of the end. That sore throat, that headache, that muscle pull, anything could be step one on my journey to the end. I’m also currently setting aside the irony that vigilance in anticipating one’s death hinders one’s enjoyment of life. I’ll save that for another time.
This, however, brings us to the second question. Am I living in a way that justifies having a life? I believe that life is a gift. I also believe that life is what you make of it. So, what do you do with the life that you’re given? Hopefully something great, right?
This is the umbrella under which all the rest of my anxieties fall. But, again, these are the daily expressions of larger questions of how to best live a life. Wishing for some great achievement trickles down to, “Am I fucking up at work?” Hoping to bring joy to others becomes, “Did my mind just wander when my friend was talking?” Wanting to love deeply and unselfishly peters out into, “Christ, do I have to download Tinder?”
Hypochondria and anxiety are nothing new to me but they’ve definitely been dialed up since I turned forty. Is this a midlife crisis?
I don’t believe that forty is old enough for a midlife crisis (I actually googled “midlife crisis” and it said it occurs in middle age which was defined as 45-65) but I am technically in midlife.
Things are good. I’m healthy. I have great friends. I have a roof over my head. I love where I live. Things are good. But I’m not really getting past this “what next?” feeling. I’m not coming up with too many answers, either.
I could sell all my possessions and hit the road, Kerouac style. I could go back to college and start all over again. I could become a doctor or a lawyer or a teacher. Or I could go traditional and just divorce my non-existent wife for a younger woman and get a sports car. Maybe a boat.
Most likely I’m going to do something similar to what I did today. I’m going to wake up, go to work, try to find something that makes me happy, and then I’ll just continue to wait for what’s next.
