Optimistic Nihilism

by David Landers

  10 Existential Psychotherapy, p. 436.

  11 Ibid., pp. 437 & 431.

  12 Ibid., pp. 431-433.

  CHAPTER 10

  What Does a Nihilist Look Like?

  But there are far better reasons for self-sacrifice than those that religion provides. The fact that faith has motivated many people to do good things does not suggest that faith is itself a necessary (or even a good) motivation for goodness. It can be quite possible, even reasonable, to risk one’s life to save others without believing any incredible ideas about the nature of the universe. By contrast, the most monstrous crimes against humanity have invariably been inspired by unjustified belief.

  — Sam Harris, The End of Faith

  IN MY LATE TWENTIES, as I began to accept that I was an atheist—and later, a nihilist—I underwent some interesting changes and began to experiment with some disturbing behavior. I started drinking more and tinkering with relatively hard drugs again. I began to dabble in antisocial behavior, even committing theft a few times, most notably that of a watch from a Dillard’s tagged at something on the order of $150. One day I viciously keyed a car in the post office parking lot, just because it was there, and nicer than mine. Most embarrassingly, I became preoccupied with masturbation—even more so than I had been during puberty! I’ll save the details of the progression for some other book and just cut to the chase: But yes—I still have no satisfactory explanation for this—I became sexually fascinated with the idea of death and corpses. This culminated to a point where I would go to the city limits and find animal roadkill, of all things, and bring it home in a plastic grocery bag. Later, when the urge had gelled—I can’t believe I’m publishing this—I would hold the lifeless creature while I—

  Oh, stop. I’m kidding. Nothing really changed as I began to identify with nihilism. In fact, I simply continued along the same path of ethical maturation that I had already begun a lifetime before. In general, I’m only an adult version of the ultra-hypersensitive kid I told you about in chapter 3. However, by far, I have actually become more stable, moral, content, and sane than I ever have been before—particularly compared to when I had identified myself as a Christian with a cosmic purpose. Hence, the punchline: If I had died when Christian—which was likely, given my risk-taking behavior at the time—I would have died miserable but gone to Heaven. Now I get to die much more peacefully, but I have to go to Hell.

  The truth is, my substance use has slowed to a crawl, limited to sporadic marijuana episodes, which I have regarded as quite an adventure as opposed to the frivolous event it used to be when I was Christian. As an atheist, I’ve literally gone years at a time without touching it. Whenever I’ve ended up with a bag to call my own, I’ve rarely been able to finish it and end up giving it away. No kidding, I had this one hilarious bag for about seven years, making me the object of ridicule for my stoner friends. It was so dry by the time a guest finally finished it off in 2010 that the buds were literally collapsing under their own weight. Time had apparently made it very harsh, as believe you me, that bag did not go gentle into the good night. There was a large amount of violent coughing and retching, the likes of which I hope I never have to hear again; I thought I was gonna have to give her CPR. Despite all that, it still worked … according to legend.

  I don’t get really drunk anymore, either. I mean, I suspect my blood alcohol level is at legally intoxicated levels about once or twice a month, but I don’t get trashed these days. And, as with smoking, I don’t drive if I go out to drink; I ride my bike. It’s so much nicer to be outside on a bike instead of cooped up even more illegally and dangerously in a car. Otherwise, I haven’t even touched (or seen) harder drugs in decades.

  And about the masturbation, it’s nothing to write home about, either. Like my drug use, it had ironically been most problematic when I was relatively spiritual, at one point arguably bordering on addiction. It was easy to become addicted to porn, back in the good ol’ days, when all internet websites were free and there was no advertising, so you could just run wild for hours on end, touring the world’s naked people and all the incredible things they will do to get off.

  For the record, even at my worst, I was only drawn to the really hard, bizarre stuff for academic reasons. A psychologist at heart for most of my life, absolutely, I’ve been fascinated by coprophagia and bestiality and so forth, but that kind of porn never stimulated me sexually. On the contrary, I’ve been slightly traumatized by some of that. The problems that I did begin to experience from more traditional porn were two related issues: chronic libidinal agitation and the objectification of women. Now, at least at the time of this writing, I honestly believe that the internet porn phenomenon actually began somewhat healthily. That is, ready access to porn, particularly the amateur stuff, convinced me that many of the women I would have previously disregarded while clothed were actually more attractive than I had been assuming. No kidding, I think amateur pornography helped me lower my unreasonably high standards.

  Alas, it kinda got outta control, and I found myself more preoccupied about potential nakedness than I wanted to be. Eventually, the creepiness of compulsively undressing everyone with my eyes began to overwhelm any benefits. Fortunately—after I had become a devout atheist—I became more able to appreciate what “objectifying” women means, because I realized I was doing it, and I was ashamed. Not only does it disregard others and make them uncomfortable—if not scared—it also degrades me and the quality of my life. Objectifying women makes me superficial, and keeps me from being present with others and connecting with them in an authentic, healthy manner. Bottom line, I don’t look at porn much anymore. When I do, it’s just the most basic Playboy-like stuff. And for the record, yes, my libido has been diminishing to more manageable, natural levels. Still a way to go, but it’s happening.

  A third addiction that has become more manageable as an atheist compared to when I was spiritual is sports. Like drugs and libido, sports fandom is now something I have, whereas it used to have me. I can still remember sitting at a bar somewhere on Sixth Street in downtown Austin, back in 1992 long before it became the Jersey Shore, and watching then-lowly TCU beat Texas for the first time in decades (yes, we’re talking football here). I remember being so overwhelmed and pissed-off, and cursing as viciously as I ever had, at least in public.

  During a particularly bitter tirade, I spotted this girl sitting with her friends over on the other side of the bar, and I’ll never forget the look on her face: It was pity, tinged with a little fear. My hostile dysphoria was disturbing her. Seeing her seeing me felt like a slap in the face and kinda quieted me for the moment, but I’d continue to get pissy like that for quite some time.

  However, after I got a few years of atheism under my belt, I really matured in this regard. For instance, I coped so much better years later at “Route 66” when Bob Toledo and his UCLA goons, Cade McNown, Skip Hicks, and Danny Farmer came to Austin in 1997. They pummeled our asses in our worst game since 1904. The final score was 66-3, having already been a surreal 45-0 at the half. But David Landers—devout atheist by the time—stayed for the duration because he didn’t want to be a fair-weather fan. I distinctly remember thinking: If my team can’t leave, I’m not going to, either. So, I and my friend Tom stood there among the other tens of fans remaining and sang The Eyes of Texas at the end of the game with the humiliated Ricky Williams, Casey Hampton, Leonard Davis, and Shaun Rogers. (That’s right, football fans: Those guys were on the same college team. More rumbling beef than the Fort Worth stockyards … broken that day, but each would rise again in gridiron glory.)

  Ernest Becker might have argued that we can be so emotional about sports because our team is a culture upon which we rely for a sense of belonging and esteem, and maybe even to help us feel bigger and better than we really are. I’m pretty sure I was doing something along those lines back when I was a “spiritual” person (ironically). Now that I see through that need to feel big it has lost its grasp on me. Atheism has helped by grounding m
e in other ways as well. For example, now that I am more acutely aware of the suffering in the world, it has simply become impossible to get so worked up over something that is intended to be recreation. Don’t get me wrong: I still love spectating sports. It’s just that they no longer have the capacity to ruin my day (or weekend, or following week).

  Today, as a self-described nihilist, I still get all sappy and teary-eyed every year when ESPN plays Jimmy V’s speech during their celebratory week named in the coach’s honor. And I live for those emotional stories they do on athletes’ off-the-field humanitarian accomplishments. While working on this chapter recently, I was watching the 2012 Fiesta Bowl when they did a piece on Justin Blackmon, the receiver for Oklahoma State University at the time. He had formed a relationship with a nine-year-old cancer patient after they met at some charity event. I cried when I saw it … and I just cried again when I watched the piece on Youtube to remind myself of how it went down. Oops, I just cried a third time looking at it again while editing. It’s the part where the little girl says at the end, “He’s awesome, he’s an awesome player, and I care about him, too, and I love him.”1

  It’s also around Tebow-mania time. There was a similar piece on Tim Tebow recently, and I cried during that one, too. It doesn’t bother me that Tim is religious; I appreciate his actions the same. I have no idea whether Justin is religious, but I’m just pretending for a moment that he’s not (I think we can assume he’s less religious than Tim, at least!). The point that I want to convey is that, as a spectator, I love what each of these guys is doing, regardless. Atheism hasn’t diminished my capacity to be touched by selfless human behavior as such. Nihilism hasn’t either. No, I don’t believe that I or anyone else has been put on Earth for any specific reason, which actually makes what Justin and Tim have done more beautiful than otherwise. I like to think they are two people who feel compelled to do those things just because they see the suffering of others and realize they can alleviate some of it. Not necessarily because God said they should, but because they want to, all on their own.

  Now, if I was spiritual, I’d be crying the same way, but there would be an element in which I would be chalking up at least some of my feelings to God’s grace or something. Instead, I see something more pure and real, a man behaving selflessly when he doesn’t have to. Now that’s humanity, when there are no spirits involved.

  At least on paper, perhaps the most objectively salient improvement in my life that seems to have corresponded with my transition to atheism was the loss of the panic attacks. As I’ve said before, I can’t attribute the healing to my spiritual transition altogether, given that I was in traditional treatment, but the coincidence is difficult to ignore. The bottom line is that I was panicking when I believed in spirituality, and around the time I gave it up the panicking stopped.

  But I have to be honest: Although the panic is gone, I’m still quite neurotic. However, it’s usually in ways that tend to respect and soothe the cosmos, as opposed to oppress it. It’s pretty obvious to me that I’m the greatest victim of my neuroses.

  I’m so sensitive toward animals that I have a very hard time even killing bugs and will go way out of my way to avoid it. When I find one in my apartment, I almost always catch it and place it outside, safely. Whenever even a bee or a wasp gets inside (which seems oddly frequent at times), I don’t kill it; I catch it with a jar and cardboard and set it free. Recently I accidentally maimed one while attempting this, and it totally made me sad! I placed it carefully on the patio, like a little kid might, hoping it might somehow reattach its thorax if left alone, but it didn’t. I also recently killed a fly in my apartment—this time with the full intent of doing so—but reflexively responded by verbalizing aloud, “Awww!” I sounded like a teenage girl confronted with a lion killing a zebra on the Discovery Channel. And no, I don’t like watching that stuff, either. It totally freaks me out, and I have to look away.

  So yes, this nihilist would kill a fly, but he’d feel bad about it. And it’s not about being a hippie or a Hindi or part of any other population that’s pro-animal. I simply don’t like to destroy anything that’s alive. It just feels wrong to frivolously snuff out the miracle of life, regardless of what medium it’s in. The Big Bang is behind that fly, and millions of years of evolution and now it has the magic of life. It’s wrong for me to crush it. I’m big, it’s little, and once it’s gone, it’s gone forever. I’d rather just let it be and see what the Big Bang has in store for it later.

  I have a habit of making U-turns in traffic and stopping at the side of the road to rescue animals who have ventured on or too close. And I’m not just talking about kitties: In recent memory, I saved (at least temporarily) a turtle, a tarantula, and a very large snake, the latter a good five feet or so in length—and it was not cooperating! It hissed at me, struck its best cobra-pose, and rattled its tail on the ground to try to scare me. I know enough about snakes to realize that it wasn’t poisonous, that it was putting on a show, but neither was I gonna let its nonpoisonous mouth molest me. So, I grabbed the only elongated object I could find—the Rock-Chalk Jayhawk umbrella from the trunk of my car—and spent about 15 minutes coaxing the dumb fucking thing to retreat to a neighboring field. I honestly remember feeling sad afterwards, realizing that it was going through all that rigmarole because it was scared, and I don’t want to be the agent of anything’s fear, especially something so helpless that I could easily have killed it, if I had wanted. Having the capacity to dominate something feels awful to me; I don’t want any part of that experience. To this day I simply cannot give my cat medicine because I can’t tolerate forcing myself upon something that is necessarily gonna fight back, and lose. Most of the veterinarians I’ve met think I’m a total pussy. They don’t say it, but I can tell.

  I know: It’s absurd, and I’m embarrassed … but it gets worse. When I jog, I find myself frustrated at the little flocks of birds who fly away because I’m coming through. It’s especially frustrating because I don’t want them wasting their energy on me, but the little shits will fly off, only to land further down the same trail in the same direction I’m heading, so they have to keep taking off again as I proceed. Dude—just go perpendicular a bit, not parallel, and we’ll be done with it!

  I don’t like to make people uncomfortable, either. It’s so bad I can’t even watch it. I don’t enjoy a lot of sitcoms because the topic is often about someone being embarrassed. Just now, I had King of Queens on in the background while working (I’m not a fan! I only caught the end while waiting for the Heat/Knicks to come on), and the episode was about the husband getting coerced into roasting his boss or something and he doesn’t want to do it. He gets on the stage, and it’s going badly, no one is laughing—and I literally had to change the freaking channel, for that reason. I’m not kidding; embarrassment is not funny to me. It kinda hurts to watch. I’ve always been this way. I loved Gilligan’s Island as a kid but often strained over the inevitable. My favorite episodes were the unusual ones in which Gilligan didn’t fuck something up.

  In public, I walk slowly around old people because I don’t want to make them uncomfortable, being some young whippersnapper bustling about who might bump into them. I hate playing competitive games, video or board, because I don’t enjoy winning much more than losing. I still like games like horseshoes, though, probably because the activity itself is more salient than who wins.

  Yes, being overly concerned about the welfare of others contributes to loneliness. In addition to the cliché narcissistic fear of rejection, I also have an equally strong, if not stronger, fear of rejecting others. I often don’t make a move because I’m afraid I’ll be disappointed, and I don’t want to expose her to that, especially if I think she likes me. So, like board games, I typically end up not playing at all. Frivolous sex hasn’t been very rewarding, either. It’s a catch-22 for me: I love the fantasy of a passionate one-night stand, but I don’t find myself attracted to most women who would indulge them. I’m not judging people who do; I
just feel like I have more traditional feminine ideas about sex, that the best kind is the emotional kind, with some sort of attachment distilled over time.

  I can typically find some sympathy for just about anyone, even some people who most Americans find unsightly, including some fairly alarming and violent criminals. Staff down at the county jail recently told me that I’ve got a bit of a reputation for being able to complete evaluations with relatively hostile psychotic defendants. But I don’t have magical powers. I’ll tell you my trick: I care about them and their predicaments, and I just let enough of that show so they can tell. Like I teach my students, just because someone is crazy doesn’t mean he’s stupid. Many crazy people can tell when someone’s concern is legitimate, and they often respond accordingly, just like anyone else (not always, so again, tread with caution).

  In my psychology practice, I always charge less than my colleagues, sometimes on the order of half. I do this not only because I feel sorry for my examinees, but also because I’m a socialist, and I even kinda like the idea of communism, at least in theory. (Yet I remain mindful of the words of the immortal Yogi Berra: “In theory, there is no difference between theory and practice. But in practice, there is.”) In a capitalist society, professionals abuse the public financially, to put it lightly, and I just don’t want to be a part of that machine.

  At the grocery store, I get my shopping basket from the parking lot, not from inside the store, because I want to do a favor for the pimply teen who has to fetch these things. If I come across a car with its lights left on in the parking lot, I’ll turn them off, if it’s unlocked (I’m surprised how often they are; what’s wrong with you people?). If the door is locked and I can’t fix it myself, I write down the license plate and report it to someone in charge. Inside the store, I pick up stuff that other people have dropped in the aisle. When I check out, I always take off my headphones so I can be present during the interaction with the cashier lady.