How Self-Help Is Not Helping
Self-help implies that you are the problem. And I guess you are the problem, quite literally. ‘You’, your sense of self, your desire to be your ‘best’ self—this is the root of suffering. Attachment to self. Craving for a better self. It’s the mother of all misery. It’s Dukkha.
Self-help, in the western sense, is having a mindfulness closet at your shitty job. It’s sad people aggressively doing yoga. It’s managing your schedule, yourdiet, your life. But humans are not meant to live like this.
It’s supposed to be our schedule, the rising and falling of the sun, the seasons, all the things that connect us to each other. A schedule is not something you, personally, are supposed to optimize. Today we keep individual schedules in our pockets like the sun shines out of our ass, and it doesn’t. It’s fundamentally miserable.
It’s supposed to be our diet. Food is always meant to be shared. Nobody is meant to choose their own optimal diet, it’s information overload. Diets are highly evolved social adaptations, honed over generations. Cultural cuisines are highly evolved adaptations between gut biomes and the climate, with plenty of feasting on delicacies included. Now we feast every day and don’t even enjoy it. We lose control of our bodies and feel guilty eating anything. Consumer culture tells us to ‘eat eat eat!’ and also that we’re going to ‘die die die!’ It’s miserable eating alone.
It’s supposed to be our lives. Not just your family, or your neighbors, or your village, but the jungle, the animals, the creatures, the unknown. We are just one bit of life in a world that’s living, and living together. From our gut biomes to our marriages to our unions, we are constantly intertwined with other lifeforms. We are inseparable, which is why being a ‘self’ is so painful. We’re not meant to live alone.
Individualism is framed as freedom, as power, as control. This is lies, subjugation, and a category error in turn.
Freedom for the individual is a gilded cage. Don’t get me wrong. I like being an individual. You get to move around, you get to orgasm, you get to enjoy food. But then what? We all get sick, we die, everybody we know dies, it sucks. Real prize isn’t first prize in these fuckboi Olympics. It’s Mount Olympus. It’s living forever, and the best way to do that is to give up on this life at all. Then boom, you’re suddenly connected to immortal bacteria, to whatever remant of us ends up clinging to a comet, you go on and on.