How Self-Help Ruined My Life
Self-help can help, but it put pressure on me.
There’s something so tidy about order.
All of the boxes checked. All the to-do list items crossed off. Accomplishment in simplicity. A routine unfolded, crease by perfect crease.
Order calls to me. From across a great and vast abyss that is my own willpower, I can see its stark lines and perfect corners. And yet, it is at an impossible distance. Order is visible, and yet not able to be captured.
There is one solution, however. One that looks perfect on the surface, but does little to apply the desired order to my life when I get down to it.
I’m speaking, of course, about self-help. The multimillion dollar industry of teaching people how to perfect their lives and heal their mental woes through a series of systems of advice, daily tasks, thoughts, routines, or some other “foolproof” solution.
I’m not the only one to be pulled in by the lust for order. Take the cultural explosion of Marie Kondo, organizer extraordinaire, and her system for blissful minimalism. Her Netflix show was a smash hit, educating watchers and proselytizing about the benefits of getting rid of things that no longer serve us.
