Why It Hurts to Feel Like an Outsider
By: Antony Pinol
Tags: Spirituality, Identity, Life, Self, Mental Health

If a child grows up in freezing temperatures and never knew of anything hotter, would he yearn for what he didn’t have?

It’s been so long now that I’ve been on the outside that I have become equally accustomed to the cold. I can’t say I don’t yearn for something different, but I am certainly starting to doubt that it even exists and so, pessimism eats away at me.

I tell myself that the happy alternative that I have been so willing to vicariously absorb is all a sham, an act of forgery that I should celebrate not being party to.

Shakespeare tells us:

“All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players.” (As You Like It)

This view of life is dangerously seductive for a human in my position. How great that a man as profound as Shakespeare should have an equally pessimistic view of humanity.

The history of the intelligentsia is littered with folk who held similar beliefs to the social scepticism that my isolation has bred within me.

Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard is one of these folk. However, he is different, he also offers a ray of hope that I try to latch on to. A shining light that comes from the very idiosyncratic view of Christianity that he espouses in his works.

A devout Christian man, who could also utter the words:

“Who tricked me into this whole thing and leaves me standing here? Who am I? How did I get into the world? Why was I not asked about it, why was I not informed of the rules and regulations and just thrust into the ranks as if I had been bought from a peddling shanghai-er of human beings? How did I get involved in the big enterprise called actuality? Why should I be involved? Isn’t it a matter of choice? If I am compelled to be involved, where is the manager-I have something to say about this. Is there no manager? To whom shall I make my complaint?” (Soren Kierkegaard, Repetition)

I shout these words loud and clear as I read them, tears running down my face, at that moment we are together, me and my Danish friend.

When I feel like something inside me that isn’t my lungs is suffocating and the oxygen I’m in desperate need of is meaningful human contact, Kierkegaard’s words provide some form of respite. Together we shout “Who am I? How did I get into the world?”.

I can’t relate to all of my friend’s words, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe them to be true. Together with fellow admirer Ludwig Wittgenstein I can say that there are parts of Kierkegaard's writing “too deep” for me to understand, but that nevertheless, the Dane “is a saint”.

Some words of my friend that find no home inside me:

“The commandment is that you shall love, but when you understand life and yourself, then it is as if you should not need to be commanded, because to love human beings is still the only thing worth living for; without this life you really do not live.” (Soren Kierkegaard, Works of Love)

I cannot shout this out in unison with Soren. But, I can trust his words. You tend to trust the promises of a friend. Can you call a human who you never saw, heard, smelt or touched your friend?

True friends affect one another on a deeply meaningful level, I think. Soren has effected me in this way, have I done the same to him? If he lives on through his words, then I can testify to having left an impact on these linguistic relics of his presence. The books I have of his are replete with signs of my physical touch: