I'm scattered and have no ambition -- what's wrong with me?

I could be an actor or a writer or even a therapist, but nothing seems to be worth all the work and commitment.

By Cary Tennis

Read more: Consumerism, Advice, Addiction, Depression, Drug Abuse, Revolution, Cary Tennis, Since You Asked, Life

March 12, 2007 | Dear Reader,

Hello again. I seem to be writing these little notes to you quite frequently these days. No one can say it is not pleasant to spend a quiet moment together before beginning the business of the day. But I will make this quick. I just want to note that a reader pointed out that I said something in Thursday's column that I did not mean and did not quite intend to say. It was carelessness on my part and so I want to amend the record. In the column headlined "I've Got Breast Cancer and I Don't Want to Live," I said in the last line, "Depression can be cured, but death is incurable." The reader pointed out quite rightly that while there are many medications and treatments for depression, there does not currently exist a medically recognized cure. It remains a baffling phenomenon about which both much and little are known. What I should have said is that depression sometimes lifts, while death never does.

I appreciate having that pointed out.

Now, speaking of "should," on to today's puzzling problem, in which "should" plays a prominent role.

Dear Cary,

I am 24 years old and I am tired. Tired of my life and tired of my mind. I am an intelligent guy; I have a degree and should be making more of life. But, to be honest, I don't have a clue what I want. In fact, I almost feel like I don't want anything. Yes, I have the brain to be a successful businessman. I have the creativity to work in TV. I have the understanding of people to work as a therapist of some sort.

Yet, I find myself in debt and working dead-end jobs because nothing appeals enough. For a time I wanted to act, then I wanted to direct. But whatever I choose, I come to a point where I always end up thinking, "Well, there must be more to life than this. I don't wanna train all those years just for that!" So, come on, what the hell's wrong with me?

Actually, I love writing. But there's a problem. I can't find anything to write about. I haven't written in over a year. And nothing much is happening in my life. It sort of stalled a few years ago. My friends are all far away, and home doesn't feel like home anymore. I suppose it never has. I'm still looking for "home," somewhere where I belong. Also, for the last few years I've been dealing with depression (I think -- I never went to a doctor, but I get suicidal thoughts and black thoughts), which partly stemmed from long-term drug problems. I have been clean for a couple of years now.

I also have had difficulty with my sexuality. I am gay and I feel OK about it, yet I never make much attempt to find a guy. In fact, I don't really make much attempt to do anything. Part of me just wants to travel and roam the lands. In fact, more than anything, I'd like to be a writer who earned just enough to get by, just enough to skip town when I chose.

Anyway, What I really wanna know is, why am I so lacking in energy? I have an intense need to do something, a great frustration, but no firepower.

Out of Gas

Dear Out of Gas,

So you think you should be making more of life. Says who?

What authority stands over you and says, "You should be making more of life!"? Whose voice is that? Is it conscience? Is it a legitimate order?

It's true that you may have trouble with your metabolism or the lingering effects of drug abuse, and, as pointed out numerous times, depression is a real but difficult and baffling disease that you may want to look into.

But your question raises something else that has been on my mind lately.

To me you simply sound like the philosophical rebel -- what we term these days a slacker.

And where have all the slackers gone? What happened to their ironic inoculation against the pestilence of certainty, their limp, cunning subversion of jackbooted hoo-ha? Do you not realize that you are a member of the cultural opposition? Who among us does not wrinkle his nose at the air of tawdry fraudulence that surrounds the "riches" the world has to offer? Do you really want these things or do you only think you are supposed to want them?

The philosophical rebel is Bartleby. Whatever we want him to do, he prefers not to -- and with good cause! He rightly disdains the carrying out of duties and chores; he says "I would prefer not" to the undistinguished business of distinguishing himself in an undistinguished field among undistinguished peers; he sees the masses aping the classes, gaping at the Oscars and donning tuxedos to be like the swells and it sickens him ... not because he yearns to change the world but because he wishes fervently to escape its hideous embrace. He hears the speeches of preachers of "Think and Grow Rich" and the jingle-jangle hype of "American Idol," unironic and blind to its own cheap worship, and he is sickened.

Immune to the contagion of striving that infects his peers, to his elders he appears simply ungrateful. He does not want what his fathers created nor what his peers are working for. So yes, the philosophical rebel is an elitist of sorts. He does not want what others want. This angers the strivers. They see him idling on a corner and think: We worked so you could have this! We won the war so you could have this! And look what you do with it! You sneer at it!

Next page: What has happened to the broad cultural idea of the misfit as hero?