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An Examination of My Mental State, More or Less

I imagine most people who know me, or who have spent any significant amount of time reading my work, would look at today’s question, raise an eyebrow, and ask, “Is this a serious question?”

And I suppose they would have a point.

Over the years, I have been called many things. Some complimentary, others considerably less so. A few were downright creative, and I must admit I admired the effort. However, I believe my youngest daughter came closest to providing an accurate assessment of my mental state.

“Dad, you’re a little touched.”

I paused to consider her observation.

No lie detected.

Of course, I could argue that my mental state is perfectly reasonable, given the circumstances. I have lived long enough to discover that life rarely makes sense, people frequently make even less, and the universe apparently has a rather questionable sense of humor. I’ve encountered enough people to wonder whether the human race is operating under some sort of warranty that expired several generations ago.

Then again, I spend a considerable amount of time creating imaginary people, putting them in terrible situations, and arguing with them when they refuse to behave as I intended. I also have conversations with cats who seem convinced that I am the intellectually challenged member of the household.

Perhaps my daughter has a point.

My editor once asked me, “Do the people in your head have arguments?”

Now, consider that question for a moment. Not whether the people in my head argue, but why someone who works closely with me felt compelled to ask.

Others have suggested that I have an entire world trapped inside my head. Not merely a few imaginary friends wandering around looking for something to do, but an entire civilization, complete with personalities, problems, disagreements, and probably a municipal government that couldn’t organize a two-car funeral.

On the face of it, you might think these people are suggesting that I’m crazy.

But I don’t see a problem.

Yes, I hear voices.

That’s right. I said it out loud.

I HEAR VOICES!!!

Whew!

That feels better, saying it out loud.

I suppose this is when some smart person would come along with one of those two-dollar words to describe what I’m feeling. Let me see…

Cathartic.

Yes, that will do nicely.

I suppose we could get even fancier, but is fancier always necessary? Perhaps on Tuesdays and Thursdays, after Scrabble.

Speaking of which, Ms. Williams be cheating.

I just want to go on record that I know she’s a cheat. Everybody knows she’s a cheat. But her potato salad is absolutely divine, so we all remain quiet. There are certain things in life worth fighting over, and potato salad ain’t one of them. Especially when it’s that good.

Sometimes the preservation of civilization requires a certain degree of selective blindness.

Now, where was I?

Oh, yes.

The voices.

The peculiar thing about being a writer is that you spend years developing characters, giving them histories, desires, fears, and enough emotional baggage to require their own luggage carousel. Then, just when you think you understand them, one of those ungrateful bastards decides to do something completely unexpected.

And who’s responsible for cleaning up the mess?

Me.

Naturally.

So, yes, the people in my head have arguments. Sometimes with one another. Sometimes with me. Occasionally, I suspect they’re holding meetings without inviting me.

But here’s what I find interesting. Nobody seems particularly concerned when a writer creates an entire fictional universe. It’s only when he admits that the inhabitants have opinions that people start looking at him sideways.

Personally, I think that’s a little unfair.

You know, I’ve come to realize that my superpower is the ability to rant at will. About anything. Absolutely anything. Give me a subject, a cup of coffee, and perhaps a cigarette, and I can probably turn a five-minute conversation into a forty-five-minute expedition through subjects that have absolutely nothing to do with where we started.

And here’s the frightening part.

I don’t even need a subject.

I can supply my own.

Now, I want you folks to keep something in mind. The name of my blog is Memoirs of Madness.

Not Memoirs of Reasonable Discussions.

And certainly not A Quiet Afternoon with a Man Who Knows When to Shut the Hell Up.

Nope.

Memoirs of Madness.

I just wanted to point that out in case some of you were operating under the unfortunate illusion that I might be a reasonable individual.

Yeah, cut that shit out.

Immediately.

I’ve spent years cultivating this particular brand of madness, and I’ll be damned if somebody comes along and ruins my reputation by suggesting I’m normal.

Besides, normal people don’t spend an entire afternoon arguing with fictional characters, accusing Ms. Williams of cheating at Scrabble, and defending their silence on the grounds of exceptional potato salad.

Or perhaps they do.

Hell, I don’t know what normal people do. I’ve never attended one of their meetings.

And frankly, I suspect their refreshments are terrible.

Wait a minute.

Can somebody explain something to me?

Who in the hell decided that hot dogs should come in packages of five?

They used to come in packages of ten. Ten! A perfectly respectable number. But apparently, somewhere in a corporate boardroom, somebody decided we were getting entirely too comfortable with our hot dog arrangements.

Now, here’s where things get interesting.

The hot dog buns are still sold in packages of eight.

Eight!

Who came up with that number? Was there a meeting? Did somebody conduct a study? Was there a government commission tasked with determining the appropriate number of buns for the average American household?

Because I’d like to see the minutes from that meeting.

First, we didn’t have enough buns. Now we’ve got too many. And don’t tell me to buy two packages of hot dogs and another package of buns. I shouldn’t need a degree in advanced mathematics and a spreadsheet to organize a damn cookout.

You know what bothers me most?

Somebody got paid to make these decisions.

An actual human being, presumably wearing pants and possessing at least a basic understanding of arithmetic, looked at this situation and said, “Yes, this makes perfect sense.”

And everybody else apparently agreed.

Meanwhile, I’m standing in the grocery store trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do with three orphaned hot dog buns. Perhaps Ms. Williams could make something with them, assuming she isn’t busy cheating at Scrabble.

Although, come to think of it, I wouldn’t trust her to count the buns either.

That woman is dangerous.

And another thing.

Who came up with the number eight?

Not eight buns.

Eight.

Why eight?

Why not seven? Or nine? Who decided that eight was the appropriate number for anything?

You know what?

Never mind.

I don’t think I’m emotionally prepared for that conversation.

Anyway…

What were we talking about?

Oh, right.

My mental state.

And you people thought my daughter was exaggerating.

The truth is, my mind is occasionally a crowded, noisy place. There are memories I would rather forget, questions that refuse to remain unanswered, and enough unfinished stories wandering around to qualify as a small municipality. Some days, everything runs like a well-maintained machine. Other days, somebody has apparently replaced the instruction manual with a restaurant menu written in Klingon.

Nevertheless, I manage.

I laugh. I question. I create. I’ve learned there’s a difference between taking life seriously and taking yourself seriously. Life has taught me that distinction, sometimes gently, sometimes with all the subtlety of a brick through a windshield.

And somewhere in all that madness, I’ve found a peculiar sort of peace. Not because everything makes sense or because I’ve achieved some enlightened state of emotional equilibrium, but because I’ve learned to live comfortably with the peculiar workings of my own mind.

Hell, some mornings I can’t even remember why I walked into the kitchen.

But I know who I am.

My imagination occasionally runs away with me, my curiosity drags me into places I had no intention of visiting, and I’m not particularly interested in changing either.

So, after all this thoughtful examination of my mental state, I believe we can safely conclude that I am a perfectly reasonable, reasonably intelligent, reasonably well-adjusted individual.

My youngest daughter, naturally, has a different assessment.

“Dad, you’re a little touched.”

I considered her words carefully.

Then I considered the voices, the arguments, the imaginary people, Ms. Williams and her criminal Scrabble enterprise, the mysterious mathematics of hot dog packaging, and the fact that I’ve just spent an extraordinary amount of time explaining why none of this should concern anybody.

Well, shit.

No lie detected.

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Author’s Note

A special thank you to Sadje for another wonderful prompt. I suspect when she asked about our mental state, she wasn’t expecting an investigation into imaginary people, accusations of Scrabble fraud, questionable hot dog packaging, and the extraordinary diplomatic power of potato salad.

But here we are.

That’s the beauty of a good question. You never quite know where the answer will take you, particularly when you ask someone whose mind has a habit of wandering off without leaving a forwarding address.

Thank you, Sadje, for giving me another opportunity to explore the madness. I hope you’ll forgive the detours.

Although, between us, I wouldn’t count on that last part.

After all, the blog is called Memoirs of Madness. You’ve been warned.

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P.S. You know, I’ve always wanted to write those words in one of my essays. You’ve been warned. I imagined they’d carry a certain dramatic weight, perhaps even send a little shiver down somebody’s spine. I was so sure it would rock.

But now that I’ve finally done it, I must admit the experience is a little underwhelming.

No thunder. No ominous music. Not even a particularly enthusiastic cat.

Nope.

Well, shit.

I suppose some things are better left to the imagination.