The Ramblings of a Mad Man

According to the online version of the Merriam-Webster dictionary, rambling is “proceeding without a specific goal, purpose, or direction.” While it has been suggested on more than one occasion that I have a tendency to ramble on a regular basis, I like to think that I elevate rambling to an art form.

Truth be known, the below ramblings can all be linked together into one cohesive entity. To those minds in harmony with mine I suspect that they make perfect sense just as they are. To those minds that find themselves feeling a bit numb, consider the below ramblings a work in progress. After all, since I first uploaded them, I have made no less than a dozen edits. I suspect that there very well may be a dozen more to be made.

Incidentally, per Google, “Mad is a versatile word with multiple meanings, primarily relating to state of mind and strong emotions. It can describe someone mentally disturbed, enraged, or even intensely enthusiastic. It can also be used to describe something unwise or extremely foolish.” Yep, pretty sure, over the years, my madness has checked all those boxes – and probably a couple more Google failed to mention.

On The Dark Side of the Moon album, released in 1973 by the English rock group, Pink Floyd, Abbey Road doorman, Gerry O’Driscoll spoke the profound lines, “I have always been mad, I know I’ve been mad, like most of us are.” The entire concept album dealt with the mental illness that plagued former band member Syd Barrett. It's an album that has resonated with me for a really long time. Especially whenever I find myself on the dark side.

There is a reason why people, especially people from my generation, plagued with a mental illness or those considering suicide don’t tell anyone. To openly admit to anyone, perhaps even to admit to themselves, that they have such an ailment is a sign of weakness – an admission to failure – a recognition that they are broken.

Additionally, no matter the age or the experience of the person with whom they confide their feelings, the all too textbook encouragements are of little help. Google has already provided those answers, judgement free. And of course, there will always be those that will simply say, “Suck it up, be a man.” As if you haven’t already told yourself that very same thing, more times than you can count.

Now, I am not suggesting for a moment that I have a mental illness or that I have ever contemplated suicide. I will, however, concede that I am in a dark place. A dark place eerily similar to the one I find myself in from time to time. For far longer and far more often than I would like to admit. Truth be known, I suspect that I am not alone, that there are a lot more hapless souls moving about from day to day in a similar dark place. We have simply learned to mask our weaknesses and our failures to the casual scrutiny.

As we look for a light, even the faintest of lights, one will surely, eventually manifest itself. Often times in the simplest of forms. A passing glance, a friendly smile, a gentle touch. In desperation each takes on a meaning far beyond their original intent. Far beyond what their provider every imagined they would.

Such solutions are hollow, one-sided at best, and serve as little more than a temporary reprieve. Further darkness lies in wait as we grope about for an easy solution to a seemingly unsolvable problem. And the person who offered the passing glance, the friendly smile, the gentle touch, finds themselves in a position of unintended consequences. After all, sometimes a passing glance is a passing glance and nothing more, a friendly smile is a friendly smile and nothing more, and a gentle touch is a gentle touch and nothing more.

And let’s not forget the all-consuming shame one feels for foolishly misinterpreting those innocent gestures. The overwhelming need to be needed, the false euphoria that fogs our head and our heart, that causes us to leap to assumptions that only exist in our minds.

In some respects, I consider myself a late bloomer. I was five years old when I entered the first grade and I graduated high school at the age of seventeen. While this might have had little relevance, I didn’t go on a date, let alone kiss a girl until my junior prom. If you have been reading along, you’ll know that that is when I met Judy – my now wife.

While I suspect that most of the guys in my class would have invented a tall tale moreover admitting as much, I have never been embarrassed or ashamed by my slow start to manhood. And I can honestly say, with great pride, I have never kissed a girl (or a woman) or did anything with or without clothes on with a girl (or a woman) since my junior prom. Never, not once, not ever.

While it’s true that such dedication is out of respect for Judy, it is also, possibly to a greater degree, out of respect for me. After all, my formative years were in the fifties and the sixties. I am a member of the “my word is my bond” generation. I was taught that trust, respect, honesty, and a handshake were paramount. I was taught that once violated, these virtues could never be fully regained.

Needless to say, once I committed myself to Judy, even before taking the obligatory marriage vows, I drew a line I vowed to never cross. Fifty-eight years later, that line has still never been crossed.

As I contemplate the internal struggles that I often experience, typically in the wee hours of the night, while lying in bed, an image of Gollum (a.k.a. Smeagol) comes to mind. Specifically, a scene in The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers (which I happened to rewatch recently) wherein the split personalities of Gollum confront each other, face to face, as they contemplate murdering Frodo and Samwise.

According to Google AI, "a face-to-face confrontation with oneself refers to the process of self-reflection and introspection, where one examines their own thoughts, feelings, behaviors, and shortcomings to understand themselves better and identify areas for improvement."

Without question, I have spent a lot of time examining my thoughts, my feelings, my behaviors, and my shortcomings. The obvious conclusion - I am human, and I am hopelessly flawed. With regards to identifying areas for improvement, yeah, they have been identified a long time ago. But I am who I am, and I have been who I am for a really long time. It's a little late in the game to become somebody else, someone I can never convincingly become.

A character trait (or is it a character flaw) which I suspect is far more common than one might think – far more common than one might want to admit. After all, it’s one of those psychological disorders that few people want to talk about openly. It’s certainly not the kind of “icebreaker” conversation one might offer up among new acquaintances. Or even among family members who might start searching online for the nearest purveyor of straightjackets or padded cells.

Among the baggage lining my closet floor and spilling out onto my computer room floor, is a battered and musty oversized satchel with an ID tag labeled, Worry. It probably goes without saying, that of all my baggage, it’s the one that is the most worrisome.

Sometimes I worry that I might be thinking too much. Sometimes I worry that I might be overthinking, though I am pretty sure that’s not possible – at least for me. Sometimes I worry that I care too much. Sometimes I worry that I don’t care enough. Sometimes I just plain worry too much. Sometimes I worry that I am not worrying enough – which causes me to worry even that much more.

In 1862 Emily Dickinson wrote the timeless quote “The heart wants what it wants.” Again, according to Google AI, “The quote is often used to acknowledge that our emotions can be strong and unexpected, and that we may find ourselves drawn to people or situations that defy logic or societal expectations.”

As a side note, according to Google AI, "societal expectations are the unwritten, learned rules and norms that dictate expected behaviors, appearances, and life paths within a culture or community, guiding individuals on how to act, interact, and contribute." Over the years, from time to time, I have said that there is no manual on how to be a good husband or how to be a good father. But clearly (or is it unclearly) there is an ever changing, unwritten societal expectation of how one should behave. Is it any wonder that some of us tend to "color outside the lines?"

And while it might be true that the heart wants what it wants, that doesn’t mean that the heart gets what it wants. Face it, that typically only happens on the Hallmark Channel or in one's wildest dreams.

Then again, as the internet acknowledges, just because the heart wants what it wants, that doesn’t mean that one pursues this tangible person, place, or thing. It simply means that one’s heart and one's mind are conflicted, often times in a very complex and traumatic way.

Grown men behave like schoolboys, grown women dress like their teenage daughters, and cats and dogs become surrogates for the most unlikely of pairings. On a brighter note, Albert has become smitten for a young Mexican maiden – you go, Albert.

As if it’s not enough that the heart is a selfish bastard, he is also very gullible and terribly naive. It would seem that my heart is very much like some of the dogs that have appeared on “The Incredible Dr. Pol” veterinary show that airs (now in reruns only) on the Nat Geo Wild channel.

The dogs to which I refer are the ones that got too close to a porcupine. There they lie on the examining room table, with a face full of quills and a look that says, “I didn’t learn my lesson, did I?” As one by one the veterinarian mercifully, yet painfully, removes these “souvenirs” you cannot help but feel sorry for the poor thing.

Without the slightest doubt in your mind, you know that the next time this dog happens upon a porcupine, he’ll move in for a closer inspection. Whereupon he’ll once again find himself lying on an examining room table as a vet once again mercifully, yet painfully, one by one removes yet another face full of porcupine quills.

Yep, been there, done that. I have said more than once that I would never do that again, but I did. I have told myself more than once that I would never care that much again, but I did. And here I lie, metaphorically speaking, on an examining room table, with a face full of quills and a look that says, “I didn’t learn my lesson, did I?” No, you poor thing, you didn’t.

Right about now, some of you are probably wondering, what the flip is he talking about? Just know it was never my intent to talk in a cohesive manner, I am rambling. And I am rambling helter skelter as thoughts pop into my head in no particular order. Just as thoughts tend to do.

And, above all else, know that, unlike Taylor Swift, I am not talking about someone who did me wrong. I am simply talking (well maybe not simply) about feelings that I have. Feelings that come and go. Feelings that keep me up at night. Feelings that I own. Feelings that make me who I am. Yep, warts and all. (Okay, perhaps it’s worth noting, as far as I know, I don’t actually have any warts. At least not on the outside.)

A number of years ago it was scientifically determined that I exhibited all the markers of stage three OTS (oxymoronic tendencies syndrome). I know that’s a mouthful to digest – a mouthful that I have been chewing on for some time now.  

One of my oxymoronic tendencies is that I am a loner. The other being that I need to be needed. Yeah, I know – the longer you chew on that, the more your jaw hurts. So, enough chewing.

I insist that I am a loner and anyone who knows me well will likely agree. But to what extent. By what definition? Could I live in a treehouse in a mystical forest for the rest of my life? Sometimes I think I could. Sometimes I think I would like to try and find out. Then again, perhaps I am simply the occasional loner that likes a bit of solitude of varying frequencies and varying lengths on an occasional basis? Hmm.

I know that I need to be needed and anyone who knows me well will likely agree. But how so and in what ways? For certain, in ways more meaningful than putting bread on the table or washing the dishes afterwards. And it probably goes without saying, I need to be needed by someone other than a spouse, a sibling, or an off spring. While their needs are real, the net effect of providing the support isn’t the same. No offense intended – just the facts – at least from my perspective.

I suspect that most would agree, giving help to or receiving help from a stranger has a more impactful feeling than giving help to or receiving help from a “family member.” In fact, I’d be willing to bet that every time your mind presses the replay button, the endorphin high you get from helping a stranger/casual acquaintance, even in the smallest of ways, is far greater than the one you get when helping someone you have known for a long time.

Now for the weird part. There’s no such thing as oxymoronic tendencies syndrome – I just couldn’t resist. There is no scientific or medical test – though I think there should be. In fact, per the Merriam-Webster online dictionary, “oxymoron usually refers to a set of contradictory words (you know, like jumbo shrimp or awfully good) rather than to a contradictory person.” This seems to suggest that we contradictory folks are nameless. Perhaps OTS could stand for oh that sucks. Hmm.

To Be Continued – perhaps