Matthew Perry, Inadequacy, and Transcendence

I imagine that a great many of you watched the show Friends with some degree of regularity over the decade that it aired.  We were saddened last week to hear of the death of Matthew Perry, who played the iconic role of Chandler Bing.  While much remains to be known about Perry’s death, regardless of the circumstances, it was a clear tragedy.  The Washington Post tribute to Perry’s life drew the immediate connection between Chandler’s character and the actor who played him:  “Here was an objectively good-looking man — funny too, of course, as well as sarcastic, silly, smart — saddled with a wildly disproportionate sense of his own inadequacy.” 

Perry was an actor of enormous ambition.  Believe it or not, he wrote once that he wanted his time on Friends to be “way down” on the list of his life accomplishments.  Some of the online articles about his life noted how shortly before he landed his role on Friends, Perry had prayed to God to make him famous.  That aim was achieved at the young age of 25 when he became an instantly recognizable celebrity.  But it was not without a price.  This year in an interview Perry said, “Nobody wanted to be famous more than me” but noted, “fame  does not do what you think it’s going to do.”  There was a clear cost to this pursuit of fame.  Perry entered rehab 15 times and, regardless of what his manner of death is ultimately ruled to be, at the age of 54, it was unquestionably too soon.

Perry’s life and tragic death offer numerous humbling lessons.  First, as prosecutors we tend to be a remarkably ambitious people.  But there is a caution here because when we set our eyes on a target, often we hit it.  For that reason alone, we should be careful in selecting the aim of our ambition, lest we find that when we reach our goal, like Perry, we discover that it “does not do what you think it’s going to do.”  I recently read a passionate argument for the idea that we should seek and prioritize meaning over happiness because the former sticks with us and changes our life, while the latter can be a transitory illusion.  I saw this highlighted in the experiences around my parents’ deaths over the last year.  By no stretch of the imagination were those happy experiences, but they were deeply meaningful, as was the way in which they brought siblings together and encouraged us to look at life and what matters through a different lens.  Perhaps when meaning is our aim, rather than happiness, we find ourselves experiencing something that can only be described as transcendent – what the poetry of the Psalms calls “the deep calling to the deep.”

The word transcendence is fascinating because the desire for experiences of that nature seem to permeate human existence.  There is a reason, for example, that Matthew Perry wanted to be famous.  And while it may have related to attendant factors like money, it is worth noting that his aim was set more explicitly on fame rather than fortune.  He wanted to live an extraordinary life, one that reached beyond the bounds of the mundane.  As litigators, I think we can sympathize with that impulse.  There is something nearly magical about standing in front of a jury and presenting a case.  And as prosecutors, the inner compulsion to have our lives be ones of significance is embedded within each of us.  It is why, after all, so many of us have set out to be part of a profession that is fundamentally centered on transforming communities.  There is something transcendent about work of that nature.

I circle back however to the Post’s notation of Chandler (and thus Perry’s) enduring sense of inadequacy.  This too is something that prosecutors truly understand.  Perhaps because our ambitions are so big, perhaps because we want to be part of something so transformational, we can easily find ourselves feeling inadequate to the task.  Perry’s life highlights how easy it is to fall into the trap of feeding our own sense of inadequacy despite ample evidence of living a life of great impact.  I imagine that there are prosecutors reading this column today, who constantly struggle  with self-doubt, considering the awesome mission to which they aspire to live.  Perhaps you find yourself wondering whether you are a good enough speaker, whether you are charismatic enough, whether you have the natural intelligence to engage in the intellectual combat of a courtroom.  If that describes how you feel on any given day, know that you aren’t alone.  Matthew Perry accomplished more than anyone in his field could dream, and he still suffered from crippling anxiety and would talk about his dread of not being funny enough and how he would “freak out” every time he delivered a line that didn’t feel like it landed just the right way.  No matter the confidence that is projected, like Perry, the attorneys who are at the top of our profession feel the same way about their work and achievements. 

And that is the problem with chasing happiness instead of meaning.  As litigators, when we place our sense of worth on the verdict that goes our way, or the sense of approval we get when we rock it out in the courtroom, or the respect that comes from our profession, it highlights at best, a transitory moment of happiness.  And when that moment fails to materialize on any given day, anxiety and stress begin to prevail.  By contrast, when we focus our aim on a deeper sense of meaning, a drive that brought so many of us to this profession in the first place, we can find experiences that are nothing short of transcendent. 

I close today with this thought from the Post’s article on Perry’s death:  “He didn’t get the second act he wanted and deserved. But we can simultaneously admire, be grateful for, and lament how much of himself he left on the field with his first.”  May we find ourselves this week pursuing meaning and recognizing our worth and the value of what we do every day.  May this week be transcendent.