On Mental Illness, Nihilism, and the Perils of Studying Philosophy
When I began studying philosophy, I was in a very bad place. I wasn’t just living with mental illness; I was living for it. I was nominally functional, waking up and going to work each day, feeding myself, going through the motions — but I’d become an empty vessel. My ambitions had nearly vanished altogether, save for one exceptionally persistent desire that simply would not go away.
I wanted to become a better person. A stronger person. A smarter person. A person who could go to the grave with some measure of dignity. If I couldn’t defeat my obsessive-compulsive disorder; if I was destined to float through life as quietly and inconspicuously as the most meekly of men; and if I couldn’t muster sufficient energy to set myself back on the path to success that my parents had once envisioned for me, I could at least be better than this.
For a long time, I relied on religious faith to catalyze my evolution into the best version of myself. And to be fair, it fulfilled that role quite well, right up until I realized that diligently complying with a religious doctrine was no substitute for genuine moral, spiritual, and intellectual growth. To take that next step, I had to follow the example of René Descartes, tip over my basket of apples, and start examining each and every one — beginning with the rotten apples that my mental illness had planted inside my mind.
It was at this stage of my life that I earnestly began to study philosophy, believing as I did that it was the right tool for the task at hand. And after years of analyzing, absorbing, and reflecting on the lessons I’ve learned about ethics, human nature, and the material world, I can honestly say that philosophy has done more for me than I could have ever imagined it would.
One thing philosophy did not do for me was restore the sense of purpose, meaning, and fulfillment that my OCD had taken from me. That didn’t happen until I met my wife and soulmate, whose love has finally given me a reason to truly live again. For her companionship, I am wholly, sincerely, and eternally grateful.
That said, I do believe that taking up philosophy was a wise decision. It has, I think, made me a better man and cultivated in me a level of self-awareness I’d heretofore been unable to achieve. In regards to my ongoing fight with OCD, it has been less helpful than I’d hoped, but more helpful than I’d expected. My OCD wins as many battles as it loses, but it’s much easier for me to recover from those losses than it used to be, thanks in part to the way in which philosophy has better equipped the rational side of my brain to deal with the obsessive thoughts and fears that my OCD routinely generates.
In hindsight, I’m grateful for the lessons I’ve learned from the likes of Albert Camus and Simone de Beauvoir. I’ve enjoyed pondering Plato’s Cave and how it relates to my own life. And I’m very fortunate to have read some of Gregg Caruso’s ideas on moral responsibility and retributive justice, ideas that have had a significant influence on my feelings about criminal justice reform. All in all, I’d say that my experience with philosophy has been both positive and productive, and I have almost no regrets about it, except for one.
I regret that no one warned me about how perilous the journey into philosophy can be for someone who is as mentally unwell as I was when I started that journey.
It is because I was so concerned with existential questions about the meaning and value of life, as well as questions pertaining to ethics, morality, and free will, that I recklessly dove into subjects I wasn’t ready to explore. I had no idea that philosophy could be so…disturbing. I hadn’t considered that, if I traveled too deeply into the darkest corners of philosophy, I might uncover certain ideas that would exacerbate my mental health problems and drive me to the brink of yet another breakdown.
Sometimes, when I felt myself edging too close to that breakdown, I had the good sense to pull back and take a break. Other times, I pushed myself harder than I should have, as I was afraid I might miss out on some critically important insight or epiphany that could magically resolve all my problems and help me reclaim my life.
Of course, that epiphany never arrived. Instead, I was treated to many long, dark, and depressing days that threatened to undo any and all progress I had made in my battle with OCD.
Nihilism was, by far, the most damaging of all the ideas I encountered. That’s because I couldn’t poke any holes in it. I couldn’t debunk it. I read and listened to many of the arguments against it, but none of them convinced them that nihilism is wrong.
Not long after I started reading about nihilism, I found myself involuntary internalizing it. My OCD was seizing on the unsettling thoughts and feelings I experienced as I learned more about the subject, making them infinitely worse than they otherwise would have been. I was anxious. I was nervous. I was depressed. I could feel myself slipping into a mental black hole that had taken me completely by surprise, and I’d no idea how to navigate my way around it — or if doing so was even possible.
It wasn’t until I recognized just how high the stakes were that I was finally able to pull myself away from nihilism and move onto other topics more suitable for a mentally ill man like myself. But I’ll never forget how it made me feel — how my OCD was drawn to it like a mouse to cheese. What does it say about the philosophy of nihilism that my mental illness was so easily able to exploit it and use it against me? And what does it say about me that I wasn’t able to press forward without risking my very sanity in the process?
Those are questions I still think about from time to time, though not nearly as often as I did before I got married and found the meaning and purpose I’d been looking for.
Of course, it wasn’t just nihilism that threatened to make my mental illness much worse than it already was. Determinism is another philosophical theory that had a similar impact on my brain. Thankfully, that impact was much more shallow and much less harmful than the one nihilism had on me. I don’t much like the idea that human beings might not have free will. But at the same time, I’ve come to realize that the absence of free will does not imply the absence of meaning, value, or purpose in one’s life, and that realization has spared me the pain and anxiety that accompanied me on my investigation of nihilism.
The big takeaway from my experience, I think, is that philosophy offers many different avenues for personal growth, and is certainly a much more constructive use of one’s time than, say, skimming the pages of some obscure self-help book written by some smooth-talking guru. However, it’s also a much more dangerous journey than many people realize, especially for those of us who struggle with severe mental illness.
So how exactly do you get into philosophy without stepping on any of the psychological landmines that I myself came very close to detonating?
Start with history. Learn the names of the people who influenced the development of philosophy, the places where it thrived, and the terminology you need to know before you can comprehend everything there is to learn. Familiarize yourself with the various branches of philosophy, and try to identify the ones that could screw with your head in the same way that nihilism screwed with mine. Try to get some idea of what you might be in store for before you dive into a topic that you’re not prepared to process in a healthy way.
And lastly, if you’re curious about a particular topic but unsure if it’s too risky for you to proceed, turn around and walk away without hesitation. The world of philosophy is enormous, and there’s plenty of other topics for you to safely explore.
