Your Life Isn't for You: A Selfish Person's Guide to Being Selfless

by Seth Adam Smith

Overview

Give Your Life to Live Your Life


In this book, Seth Adam Smith expands on the philosophy behind his extraordinarily popular blog post “Marriage Isn’t for You”—which received over 30 million hits and has been translated into over twenty languages—and shares how living for others can enrich every aspect of your life, just as it has his. With a mix of humor, candor, and compassion, he reveals how, years before his marriage, his self-obsession led to a downward spiral of addiction and depression, culminating in a suicide attempt at the age of twenty. Reflecting on the love and support he experienced in the aftermath, as well as on the lessons he learned from a difficult missionary stint in Russia, his time as a youth leader in the Arizona desert, his marriage, and even a story his father read to him as a child, he shares his deep conviction that the only way you can find your life is to give it away to others. Your Life Isn’t For You was recently named the Gold Medalist for Inspirational Memoir in the 2015 Living Now Book Awards!

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781626560956
Publisher:	Berrett-Koehler Publishers
Publication date:	09/22/2014
Pages:	112
Product dimensions:	5.40(w) x 8.30(h) x 0.30(d)

About the Author

Seth Adam Smith was born with an abnormally large head—an unholy harbinger of things to come. His greatest ambition in life is to own a flamethrower for recreational purposes. His favorite word is “glorious.” He is also the Gold Medalist for Inspirational Memoir in 2015 Living Now Book Awards. Find out more if you dare at SethAdamSmith.com, and look for his blogs on the Huffington Post.

Read an Excerpt

Your Life Isn't for You

A Selfish Person's Guide to Being Selfless

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By Seth Adam Smith

Berrett-Koehler Publishers, Inc.

Copyright © 2014 Seth Adam Smith
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-62656-095-6

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CHAPTER 1

The Selfish Giant

In one degree or another we all struggle with selfishness. Since it is so common, why worry about selfishness anyway? Because selfishness is really self-destruction in slow motion.

—NEAL A. MAXWELL, AUTHOR

I was born with a frighteningly large head.

Seriously. It scared the nurse.

Not long after my grand entrance, she measured my head and whispered, "No, that can't be right."

She measured it again. "It's not possible."

She measured it a third time and then looked up at the doctor. "Do you realize that this boy has the biggest head I have ever measured?"

It was a symbol of things to come. From ill-conceived notions in my six-year-old brain about my ability to create and control a bonfire behind my house to fanciful ideas that made me think I could befriend particularly aggressive wildlife, my big, egotistical head was always getting me into disastrous trouble.

Yes, my giant head was always getting me into trouble. But luckily, my family was always there to bail me out.

I think my father realized that if he didn't do something (beyond the usual punishments), then his son's self-centered ideas could very well lead to self-destruction. My dad needed something that could possibly rewire his child's brain—something that would definitively teach the child: Selfishness, bad. Selflessness, good.

But what? Clearly, his child didn't understand physical punishment, nor did he seem to understand words like "No!" "Stop!" or "You're going to burn the house down!"

No, my dad needed a different, more covert approach. He needed to teach me virtues without my knowledge. That's when it hit him: what better way to teach virtues than to read from The Book of Virtues? Surely this eight-hundred-page monstrosity contained the remedy for even the most obstinate of children.

And so, for the one and only time that I can remember, my dad sat down and read a bedtime story to my sister Jaimie and me.

The story was "The Selfish Giant," and it was written by the Irish author Oscar Wilde. Now, I'm a lover of literature. I love all kinds of stories, novels, and works of nonfiction. But looking back, I don't think that any other story has had more of an impact on my life.

The story is about a Giant with a large, beautiful garden. While the Giant was away, the local children would gather in his garden and play. "How happy we are here!" they cried to each other.

One day, the Giant came back. "What are you doing here?" said the Giant angrily, and the children ran away. He built a high wall around his garden to keep out any would-be trespassers. In time, the Giant decided to tear down the wall.

As my dad continued to read the story, it soon became apparent that he had never actually read it for himself. I knew this because as he reached the end, he started to get choked up.

Jaimie and I exchanged nervous glances. What was happening to Dad? Seriously. Our dad was the Stonewall Jackson of emotion. He had served in the Marine Corps and worked in the Criminal Investigation Division (CID). He carried out drug busts with a German shepherd named Happy. My dad had seen some crazy stuff and rarely showed his emotion. Getting choked up over a children's story? Something was clearly wrong.

"Uh, Dad?" asked Jaimie. "Is everything OK?"

"I'm fine," my dad replied. He hurriedly finished the story and closed the book. "Good night."

Whatever lesson my dad had tried to teach was tossed aside as we grappled with the fact that our ex-Marine father was probably having an emotional breakdown. We sat in silence, staring at The Book of Virtues as though it were the Book of the Dead.

It seemed to stare back at us.

"The book broke Dad," Jaimie whispered.

We agreed that the book was evil and resolved to never read from its dark pages. Which is partly why I've carried it with me ever since.

But apart from the very real possibility that the book has dark, magical powers, there is another reason why I've held on to it for all these years. You see, as strange as it was to see my dad get choked up over a children's story, it wasn't the first time I had seen him express emotion. The first time had been a couple of years earlier. Actually, I can give you the exact date.

November 9, 1989.

I was absently playing with my toys when I wandered into my parents' room and found my dad sitting in his chair, positively glued to the TV.

I followed his gaze. What I saw confused me. It was a news report from a foreign country; despite the weather being overcast, cold, and gray, a crowd of people were laughing, smiling, and dancing. The reporter was saying things like "this is truly amazing," "a new beginning," and "a great day."

"What's happening, Dad?" I asked.

"They're tearing it down," he said, his voice heavy with emotion.

I looked back at the screen and saw it: a wall.

The Berlin Wall.

Years later, I would learn the significance of the Berlin Wall. It was built at the height of the Cold War, a forty-year period of icy relations between the Soviet Union and the United States. The Soviets had built the wall to keep East Berlin (occupied by the Soviet Union) separate from West Berlin (occupied by England, France, and the United States). The wall quickly became a hated symbol of the political tensions between the Soviet Union and the West.

After living in Berlin for two years (1966–1968), my dad had become well acquainted with those political tensions. He firmly believed that the United States and Soviet Union would never see eye-to-eye. In his mind, the only way that wall would come down would be through all-out war. So when he saw images of West Berliners helping East Berliners tear down the wall, he almost couldn't believe it.

"The war is over," he whispered.

Ultimately, my dad's inexplicable emotion over these two walls is what prompted me to hold on to the story of "The Selfish Giant." I wanted to know why. Why did a children's story about a giant knocking down a wall mean so much to my dad? Why did a news report about people tearing down a real wall make him shed tears?

The answers to these questions didn't come until almost fifteen years later—when I suddenly and painfully realized that I had been living the story of "The Selfish Giant."

CHAPTER 2

Winter within the Wall

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one ... The only place outside of Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.

—C. S. LEWIS, THE FOUR LOVES

I hated being a Mormon missionary.

Hated it.

It was 2005. I was nineteen years old, and I was serving as a missionary in far eastern Russia, near the city of Vladivostok. To say that my father was shocked would be a bit of an understatement. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine that his own son would one day be living as a missionary in Russia.

Now, some of you might scratch your heads at this contradiction. Wait, didn't Seth tell us that he's an introvert? Doesn't being a missionary demand that you interact with people?

Why yes, yes it does. But despite the image of smiling, singing missionaries in the musical The Book of Mormon, not all of us are as happy-go-lucky about serving a mission.

But the call to serve others is an integral part of my Mormon faith, and I was hopeful that I would somehow (perhaps miraculously) rise to the occasion.

Alas, I didn't exactly soar with the eagles.

In fact, I spent most of my time wandering the streets of Russia with my eyes to the ground and my mouth clamped shut. I woke up as late as I could, spoke with Russians as little as possible, and hurried to bed as soon as I could. I lay there for hours, filled with an intense feeling of dread about what fresh hell the next day would bring.

About halfway through my two-year mission, I felt that I had reached a mental breaking point. In time, I would be diagnosed with chronic depression: a genetic predisposition to feel sad, anxious, worthless, and lonely. Depression runs in my family, and I had unknowingly struggled with the condition for many years. But at the age of nineteen, I didn't know that was what it was. All I knew was that I was hurting, and my mind, in a frantic attempt to find out what was wrong, would dig up hundreds of reasons why I might be sad and worthless. This never-ending stream of thoughts only intensified my feelings of depression.

I felt like I was damaged. I thought if people knew who I really was, and if they knew what was going on inside my head, they wouldn't be my friends. So in response to these thoughts and feelings, I did what so many people with depression do: I began to isolate myself from others.

Little did I know that I would soon be entering one of my most severe struggles with depression—one that would last for almost two years.

There's a reason why I'm telling you all this, and that reason came shortly after I met another missionary by the name of Erich. He was a very friendly and humble man from Switzerland, and although he was several inches shorter than me, he had the persona of a gentle giant. Something about him seemed to draw others to him. He would listen to people and they would listen to him. Even those who didn't want to talk to missionaries (and were very vocal about it), if they talked to Erich, not only softened but brightened a little.

I couldn't understand it. How was this quiet, gentle missionary so effective at talking to people? What was it about him that was drawing others to him?

One day, Erich and I were working together in the city of Ussuriysk. On a whim, I asked him what it was that made him such a successful missionary.

Erich looked at me thoughtfully and blinked. "Well ... I don't know if I'm 'successful,'" he said. "But I do know that the only thing that matters is that you learn to love people. If you learn to love the people you are serving, then everything will just fall into place."

I'd like to say that those words hit me like a ton of bricks—that they changed my life from that moment on—but they didn't. I brushed them off with several sweeps of sarcastic thoughts. Hmph! I thought. OK, yeah, love thy neighbor and all that nonsense. Seriously, though. What does he do? Is there, like, a system? A special way of communicating with people? What books has he been reading? Give me something I can work with!

I've since realized that when I was asking Erich how to be a successful missionary, I was really hoping he would tell me how I could "have it all" but without any of the people.

I was thinking like the Selfish Giant in Oscar Wilde's story. I wanted a beautiful garden (a rich and abundant life) without the annoyance of people trampling through it. It was as though I was asking Erich for tips and tricks on how to improve my garden: How can I have a more abundant harvest? How can I increase the flowers and fruits? And like the Giant, I didn't want people messing up the garden of my life. Excuse me, this is mine. Why are you stomping about? No, no! You're going to ruin everything. Back off! Get out!

But Erich had hinted at the inescapable truth: A garden is beautiful only when it is filled with people; they determine its beauty. Our joy in life is inextricably determined by the degree to which we love and embrace others.

But Erich was asking the impossible. Learn to love these people? Am I not doing enough by simply being here? What more am I expected to give?

As the months dragged on, I continued to build a wall around my heart—quietly pushing people out of my life.

In August, I was transferred to Nakhodka, a small port city tucked away in the most beautiful and peaceful harbor you can imagine. The very name Nakhodka can be translated as "Eureka!" or "Lucky find."

But despite the city's name and natural serenity, I found no peace and no rest there. A storm was raging in my heart. Because of the cultural differences and the overwhelming resistance from Russians to even listen to us, I had taken offense toward them. My hostility only increased their resistance toward me.

In October, I was overcome by a terrible fever. Its intensity, pain, and duration were unlike anything I had ever experienced. I was delirious. I was in the most excruciating pain, immobile, and perpetually drenched in sweat. The Russians who knew about my condition did everything in their power to help me. During a three-week period, they visited me often and recommended a host of Russian doctors, medicines, and remedies.

You would think that after weeks of enduring such pain, I would eagerly accept help from any source. But I didn't. In fact, I flat-out rejected any help that came from Russians. Part of that stemmed from sheer arrogance: how could Russian medicines be better than American medicines?

But there was another, more cynical reason why I rejected Russian aid. You see, I wanted irrefutable justification for my bitterness. I wanted to have some legitimate reasons to push Russians out of my life and prove that I was right and they were wrong. Instead of wanting to be healthy, I wanted to be right.

Looking back on it now, I often wonder if that sickness was a manifestation of a much deeper sickness in my heart.

As I started to get better physically, I made the decision to leave Russia and return to the States. I was done. I obviously wasn't designed to love people, and I was only causing problems there. My inability to "love people" had frustrated me for the last time. Why keep it up? Why try anymore?

In November 2005, after lying to myself and others, I turned my back on Russia and boarded a plane for the States.

But there was a hollowness to my homecoming. Though I stood in the house in which I had grown up, something inside of me was lost. In coming home early, I was unknowingly following in the footsteps of the Selfish Giant. After a prolonged absence, the Giant "determined to return to his own [home]." But there was a bitterness to his homecoming—a winter in his return.

Once the Giant had finished building his wall, it underwent a bitter transformation. While the surrounding townsfolk enjoyed the blossoms and birds of spring, it was as if the season had intentionally neglected the garden of the Giant. "The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom."

Sitting by his window and looking out at his cold, white garden, the Selfish Giant couldn't understand why the spring was so late in coming. And although he hoped for a change in weather, "the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant's garden she gave none."

In the weeks and months that followed my return from Russia, I spent most days lying in bed, trying to sleep my life away. I was bruised by my decision to emotionally wall off my heart and distance myself from other people. My world began to wither and my relationships started to rot.

It didn't seem logical to me. I thought my decision to come home was the best thing for me and for others. Why would anyone want to deal with my depression, anyway? Who could love someone like me? Since I had so little to give other people, why not protect what little life I had? Wouldn't sharing my life mean that I lost it? I made my decision to protect others as much as myself, so why was I feeling so depressed?

All around me, people lived and laughed as though it was spring and summer. But I would look out the window of my life, and, like the Selfish Giant, I could only see a dark and wintry world.

This internal winter became so oppressive that I lost all sense of sentiment. Instead, all I felt was just all-consuming emptiness. Overcome by the need to fill this void, I sought any means of escape or relief, and I quickly became addicted to painkillers.

My addiction only accelerated my desire to serve myself, driving me further and further into isolation, secrecy, and self-centeredness.

In his short story, Oscar Wilde masterfully illustrates the pain and isolation of depression through the use of four characters that personify different elements: Snow, Frost, the North Wind, and Hail.

"Spring has forgotten this garden," they cry, "so we will live here all year round." They then take turns gleefully beating down the garden and home of the Selfish Giant.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Your Life Isn't for You by Seth Adam Smith. Copyright © 2014 Seth Adam Smith. Excerpted by permission of Berrett-Koehler Publishers, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Disclaimer xi

Introduction xv

1 The Selfish Giant 1

2 Winter within the Wall 7

3 A Melted Heart 19

4 Look Out the Window 27

5 Lift Another 33

6 Knock Down the Wall 41

7 The Heart of Russia 49

8 A Light in the Wilderness 57

9 The Resurrected Russian 65

10 The Legend of the Northern Lights 73

Epilogue 77

Acknowledgments 79

About the Author 83

Editorial Reviews

Your Life Isn’t For You” by Seth Adam Smith is a small, easy to read but powerful book full of positive messages. It is lighthearted and filled with important life lessons aimed to give readers a heightened sense of self awareness.”

—Book Examiner

“The book is distinguished by his candor. He tells you that your life is about being of service to others in countless ways and thus the title becomes clear. If you feel you’re encountering problems because of your own selfish attitudes or behavior, I strongly recommend you read his book.”

—Book Views

“…One of those books that readers will be able to go back to time and again to remind themselves what can happen in life and how good life can be if lived for others.”

—Blog Critics and Seattle Post Intelligencer

“A brilliantly written and insightful book. Seth’s vulnerability and honesty are irresistible—pulling you in and opening your heart to the possibility of a life without walls.”

—Michael J. Merchant, President, ANASAZI Foundation

“Seth’s amazing book illustrates a powerful and proven path to happiness and gently reminds us how easily we forget this profound truth: focusing on others brings the deepest joy.”

—Lindsay Hadley, founder and CEO, Hadley Impact Consulting

“Seth Adam Smith has figured out some of life’s greatest lessons through remarkable life experiences and by listening to the great teachers that were placed in his path.”

—Sterling C. Tanner, President and Executive Director, Forever Young Foundation

From the Publisher