Meaning of Success?

Since the death of my wife I have been feeling like a failure, at least compared to the successful people I grew up with.

But I cannot define what it would mean to be a success. When I was in analysis I was asked on several occasions what I wanted to see when I was lying on my deathbed and looked back at my life. I was never able to give an answer to this question and I still do not know the answer. So I am writing this to try and figure it out.

The first and most important part of my life being a success would have to be ending this life and never having to return to life again. I do not know if there is reincarnation, but I hope not. I had enough of this life before I was 8 years old; by then my life had already been so painful that I started trying to kill myself so I could end my suffering. The idea that I might have to return and live another life is terrifying to me.

I am only 46 years old but I am so tired deep inside. Each day is a struggle and has been for as long as I can remember. My hope for the afterlife would have to be resurrection or nothing at all. Resurrection: me as I was when I died, with my memories and personality, coming back to life at some point in the future when suffering has become a thing of the past.

I feel so sorry for the two women who have loved me. I think they both knew that I loved them, but there was nothing anyone could do to make me think that life was something worthwhile. I do not want this to sound like I live a life full of sadness and gloom. But I could not tell them that they made up for the pain of my past.

Dostoyevsky is by far my favorite writer and my favorite character of his is Ivan Karamazov (from The Brothers Karamazov). Oh, I love Prince Myshkin (from The Idiot)—he is an ideal for me, something to strive for. But Ivan’s voice cries from inside of me.

Ivan, in his own search for what justice means, tells the story of the little boy whose master had him killed because the boy hurt one of his dogs by accident. The master had the dogs kill the little boy. Ivan wants to know how there can be justice for that 8-year-old little boy and comes to the conclusion that there cannot be—not even after death.

I see so clearly that there can be no justice for the 8-year-old little boy thrown to the dogs, or for me as an 8-year-old little boy told I was brain damaged, or for me when I was 9 years old and raped.

In fact I reject the concept of justice altogether. There is no way that my unexpiated tears to “dear, kind God!”—begging him to simply let me die night after night—can be just. Nothing that happens to the boys who raped me will ever give back what I lost or make me whole. I am not saying that I have not moved on with my life and put that in my past, but like the chains of Jacob Marley they will always weigh me down.

I wonder about the cost of this life and if it can possibly be worth it to live once, let alone over and over. I know it cannot be worth it for me. It is possible that my suffering is worthwhile for someone else and I truly hope so.

I have tried on many occasions to kill myself and turn in my ticket to this life, and found I was not able to—but I want to make certain I do not get back on the ride again. God can keep his ticket!

I do not go as far as Ivan. I am more than willing to admit that I am simply a human; I was not there like Job when the world was made. So perhaps I am wrong and the suffering is worth something in the end. I hope so.

As I say, I do not know if there is reincarnation or not—and I hope not. I have seen too much in this life (things that people should not see). But the image that has been troubling me the most of late is the image of my beautiful wife, out of her mind, deep in a psychotic break. To see her that fractured and broken, not even able to form words, with her hands around my throat trying to escape from the psychiatric ward I had committed her to. (Yes, that really happened.)

I know that each of us possesses a part of the divine in us, but I am having a real problem at the moment with the idea that the be-all and end-all of existence is to reconnect with the divine only to be spit out again.

I would much rather believe that God’s loneliness and isolation (after all, she is the only God) has caused her to try and find a way to end her misery. Not by suicide, but by giving up a piece of herself to become a partner. That we are all a part of the rib that God is using to create her own partner. I hope that is the reason for existence and that suffering can lead to healing—not of man, but of God.

That does not mean that I do not find a lot of value in the works of Eknath Easwaran or Hinduism. I would like to think that I take it a step further and ask the question: OK, once we’re back, then what? I know the lessons they teach are very important and help us to grow. But whether it is back to God or growing up to be a new God, I cannot answer any more than a cell in my body can understand what I am doing. Perhaps we are all just cells in a new infant God, and our suffering is of no more importance than the pain every being feels while growing up.

What have been my Desires / Dreams?

All of this is interesting theology, but does not really bring me closer to the answers that this paper is supposed to address. The reason for that is, of course, that while I can and will continue to do my best on my spiritual path, when I am lying in bed dying, looking back will show me my old life. It is only after I have exited that I will be able to look at the chains I have made, like Marley, and see what is coming next.

I think it might be helpful if I looked at this question from a more analytical point of view—looking at what my desires and dreams for my life have been and trying to see what they can teach me about what they can be in the future.

The dreams I can remember are being an astronaut, being a Vulcan, the girl I first loved, photojournalist, pilot, priest, programmer, and writer.

Next: Success Dream #1: Being an Astronaut