Kierkegaard writes about despair because he wants to cure it, W. says, reading from his notes. He wants to cure us of that sickness unto death which, for him, is really a kind of sickness of oneself, of being oneself.
For the most part, Kierkegaard argues, we refuse to confront the real object of despair; we confuse it with our failure to achieve particular markers of success, to attain this job, say, or to begin this romantic relationship. This ignorance not only masks the real causes of despair, but even that despair itself. For one's failure seems only accidental, and one can still dream of achieving the marker in question, upon which our hope would hang.
In the meantime, the loss of the job in question, or the prospect of that romantic relationship is also a loss of self. You might wish to be another self altogether: one with more talent, perhaps, more physical beauty. If only I were cleverer, more handsome … But you are still yourself, and that appears to be the tragedy. Still yourself: but the goal is to despair over oneself. To despair, without dreaming of being someone else, being better in some particular degree.
Despair, now, becomes conscious. I am aware of that I am both the subject and the object of my despair. Aware that it came from me, and concerns me and that, somehow, my existence in its entirety is a problem for me. To where can I turn? Upon what can I rely when I become conscious of the real source of my despair? This is the question that terrifies W. For hadn't he always blamed me for his despair? Hadn't he always assumed it was all my fault? If only I could be rid of him, that idiot … If only I could ditch him somewhere …
Lars Iyer's Blog 