The Lunatic

I often feel like I live with a lunatic.  No, not Ronnie.  It’s that person I have to hang out with all day and all night for my entire life.  It’s me.

I live with the obsessions, random thoughts, anger, and passion. The repetitive stories, memes, complaints, dismay, complexity.  I get to hear it all and for what?  Just a life well lived?  When did I say yes?

Does a life well lived make up for it?  The carrying-on, the whining, belligerence, bad behavior, insensitive spoken words, and all the rest?  Underlying it is the voice asking, “Why?”  “Why do my feet hurt?”  “Why did my car get dented?”  “Why do I love this fraying shirt so much that can’t be replaced?”  Why, why, why?

Or does the love, a kind gesture, or a listening ear even when I’d rather howl, become a gift freely given that counts most in the physical world and that of the soul?

Do these things balance out even though I live with the person that can’t explain the mystery of life, or why I hurt so bad for no reason, and why I want to slug inanimate objects, or pull out my hair?

As if this weren’t enough, she’s also busy in her virtual reality. Her dream world is not observable by others but very, very busy including most Popular Annoying Moments, Scariest Worries, and Regurgitating the Past with Nazi Appearances and other Frightening Creatures. (I’m so grateful I never saw a zombie movie.) Sprinkled in are Murder Mysteries and Great Spy episodes with me starring as protagonist. I didn’t know I could play a clever secret agent man or an indomitable Sherlock Holmes. I wake up to just get peace and quiet. 

The lunatic has problematic play lists for daytime hours too.  Greatest hits include, “Most Embarrassing Moments,” “Biggest Mistakes” and the most popular, “Best Bad Decisions.”  Please, amnesia would be good right now.

In all this, if I sit quietly, I can feel the love inside, the desire to do good or at least do no harm, the knowledge or belief, if you will, that I am part of the earth and no more important nor less important than the smallest of life.

The lunatic often apologizes to inanimate objects or what some people would consider non-sentient  beings. I had an influx of tiny sugar ants on my desk. The lunatic hated to kill individuals and apologized to each one when forced to do so. After treating my desk and finding a dozen or more dead, the lunatic had a memorial service. I have to be vigilant in keeping her from taking me altogether down Crazy Street. 

Awhile back, I made a file folder called, “The Good Things” so when I’m feeling blue I can reflect on them.  It includes nice things people said or wrote to me; text exchanges; and my written remembrances of conversations about qualities of mine that felt good. My daughter cites a statistic that for every negative comment, it takes ten positive comments to erase that one powerful negative.  The folder could be my ticket out of regret lunacy.  Put another way, it keeps the lunatic focused on good things when I need a break. 

In addition, the lunatic thinks I’m some kind of writer. She’s forever taking notes, writing things down, electronically filing email exchanges. She thinks she’s a reporter at Life’s front. She pesters me to write things down anywhere, anytime, and thinks she has to report them to the internet newsroom. There’s only so much I can do with this kind of lunacy with a front row seat 24/7. 

I think we all have some version of that chatter. We give different names to that inner Critical Voice. Still, who is going to turn off this ghastly noise in my head?  I breathe deeply.  I meditate.  I gratefully watch the water, trees, birds, bugs, and mountain in the land of my birth.  In a final desperate distraction, I watch a Mets’ baseball game or a Monte Python movie.  I still hear those thoughts, “You should have bought that.”  “Didn’t you feel ashamed?”  “That was a big mistake.”  “How long are you going to hold onto that?”

They say the only way out of life’s problems is through them.  That’s no joke.  I gotta keep living this life.  I’ll see where it goes and where it ends.  In the meantime, this shit is hard work.  I don’t remember signing up for this. 

I’m still looking for the 1-800 number to express my dismay.  If I find the number, I’ll probably be on hold for a century.  That’s how they get us to buy into this life.  We can’t get a hold of customer service to resolve our complaints.

To Life.

Joceile

4.5.22

 

[Picture of me and cat, Scarlett, while I try to get a grip on the lunatic. There’s no certainty Scarlett has an internal voice like mine. The creep!]