Confessions of a Bad Buddhist

When I was around 19 years old, I was studying for a community college course at the Mission Viejo Library. In this beautiful building, I took a study break and walked around only to find myself in the religion section. The cover of a book caught my eye with a robed figure, lightly smiling while wearing large, red-framed glasses. This book was The Art of Happiness, by the 14th Dalai Lama and Howard C. Cutler.

At that stage in my life, I was deeply sad. I wish to avoid using the word depressed because, frankly, this was not a mental chemical imbalance or diagnosed issue; I want to respect those suffering with real depression. Instead, I found myself in what I would later learned to be called an existential vacuum. Viktor Frankl, when examining patients well into the 20th century, found that they contain "the feeling of the total and ultimate meaninglessness of their lives... They lack the awareness of a meaning worth living for. They are haunted by the experience of their inner emptiness, a void within themselves" (Man's Search for Meaning, 48).

This void and absence can pretty much define most of my life. Growing up in Laguna Hills and Mission Viejo, I was raised with a deeply rooted and silent whisper that emphasized material gain over internal growth, spirituality, compassion, or companionship. I was the youngest, too, having two brothers that would model the American materialism, power-hungry mentality. The goal in life was simple during this time: gain wealth, live and own a big house, then buy another house that could be rented to people poorer than you; buy a nice car, drive that nice car, and ensure that you gain a good-looking partner (ideally white) that you will effectively march around in the status circle-jerk that is Orange County life.

I cannot remember a time in my family when compassion, curiosity, and spirituality was ever taken seriously. If I were to ever attempt to address my parents or brothers about this, they would likely disagree. Whatever their words might be, their actions reflect the words I write now. When reflecting on my family, I can remember clearly every dinner dominated by discussions around the housing market. I also remember clearly the praise my older brothers regularly received for their physical prowess, or dominance over their peers in one aspect or another. Me, understanding that as the only sign of success and love, resorted to misbehavior for one simple reason: I couldn't find any aspect of my life where I truly dominated anyone.

It resulted in a cycle: happiness was power, power was found through physical or material excess, I was unable to achieve either of these, I resorted to misbehavior, I was deeply unhappy, I searched for happiness, but happiness was power.

I finally found breaks in this cycle in community college. Despite barely graduating from high school with a 1.6 GPA, I found myself trying again at Saddleback College, much to the request of my mom. This awarded me new freedom and a break from my pool of influence as I was alone in the home; my brothers had both moved out by then. Each class was a misstep, but it was still a step in the right direction. In my second year, I took an introductory literature course and found myself in love with the puzzles that modernist literature (Like Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock) brought to my mind. I found out that despite being in remedial English classes throughout high school, I had a knack for analysis when it wasn't driven by multiple choice answers or the narrow thinking of a high school English teacher. That class was my start to literature, and one that would sprout into a career. But this mini bio isn't about that experience.

Instead, I want to go back to that moment in the Mission Viejo library. I, frankly, don't remember what class I was studying for. Regardless, the book I found on that shelf, The Art of Happiness, deeply resonated with me then, much as it does now. I still remember being shocked with the abrupt directness and clarity of the Dalai Lama's argument, even in the first chapter: "I believe that the very purpose of our life is to seek happiness" (29). He laid out the principles of suffering, the nature of attachment, and the belief that kindness toward others ultimately functions as kindness to yourself, too. This latter part particularly resonated with me as when I sought to act kindly, I often found myself out of the existential vacuum; I was no longer plagued with the misery I was taught into.

This was my first experience with Buddhism and the lessons I have learned have not left and they have not shifted. They stayed, as seeds that have rooted and flourished over the years. But I would be remise to paint myself as some devout Buddhist for the 16 years that followed. Between then and now (19 then, 35 now), I have frankly lived a life of busy attachment, material gain, intellectual discovery, and ultimately self-centered behavior. I have not strived for the middle way and I have not followed many of the precepts set out in good Buddhist practice.

Most painfully, I have spoken cruelly, looking to gain power and leverage over conversations rather than understanding and being. In my classes at Fullerton, my attachment to the image of intelligence and my own intellectual insecurities left me isolating those I thought were intelligent, believing everything to be competitive. I would often ask questions not to seek my own enlightenment, but rather to stump the instructor or prove to others something I was unable to prove to myself: that I was smart enough. Even later in my life, I would permit myself anger, aggression, or cruelty for the sake of the outcome, often allowing myself to taunt or berate people only if it left me feeling in control or attached to an image of superiority. This failing, more than any other, continues to haunt me as I dive deeper into my practice, especially when I am not consciously practicing. It is clear I have so much growth left.

But such is the way, and such is the path. I would be discounting the significance of all of the experiences in my life so far that have, ultimately, lead to much comfort and fortune. Reflecting back, I have had so much good luck and fortune despite my attachments and failings, and all of these things have also allowed me to return to my Buddhist practice with so much more vehemence than before. Moreover, I am more intellectually capable, diligent, brave, and dedicated than I ever was, meaning that while my efforts may have been driven by attachments in the past, I am able to more skillfully steer them toward the dharma now. In other words, despite my failings, I feel I need redirection rather than complete reconstruction.

This is my intention with this section of my website, Kinch's Gate. The same cruelty and selfishness I see in Stephen (from Ulysses) is much the same I see in myself. His brilliant is one that I admire, but I use it as a reminder that even if I were to achieve intellectual Kinchlightenment, so to speak, it would not attain me greater virtues of kindness, compassion, understanding, and happiness.

In other words, this section of my website is an extension of a practice that began some 16 years ago. While I have recently begun to meditate daily, read sutras, explore my relationship to a sangha, and more, I want to assert clearly: I have been with the dharma always. The same elements from literature that have sparked my curiosity and driven my life in positive ways have been the same overlaps found in the dharma. The same people that have inspired me are Bodhisattvas in their own right, though they may not be recognized as Bodhisattvas by name. And the groups and people I seek to be with will be my sangha, regardless of their religious creed, as we all strive for a perfection of being that will embody growth in kindness, compassion, and unity.

Written July 15, 2025

Last Edited July 15, 2025