Madness Is Eccentric

Perceptions have gone wrong

“Don’t just play your hand. Play your opponent’s hand against them.”- The Royals TV Show

What is the difference between madness and eccentricity?

Courtesy of Quora

Daily Challenge: Four?

The Art Of Madness In Our World

Madness as a term is subjective to our own perceptions. I’ve read about kings, men, women, and children going mad in stories. But to witness it in our world is what we perceive to be a horror. People who go mad are considered crazy, loony bin worthy, and require psychological help. Truth is: Our world is madness.

Madness to me is an adjective in the sense that we use it to define what we don’t quite understand. Drugs can be an enabler to madness and manipulate thought often creating actions that a normal person would not partake in. Such as the guy that ate off another guy’s face. ( It’s real. I think in Florida it happened with bath bomb salts?)

Our own natural definition for the term is found in the Merrian Webster dictionary as three versions:

1. A state of severe mental illness-not used technically
2. Behavior or thinking that is very foolish or dangerous: extreme folly
3. Intense Anger ( Rage)
4. ( strange) Ecstasy, enthusiasm

Lord, oh Lord, so many definitions ruffled in this small word. But I have my own thoughts and ideas of this word and how Madness is an eccentric part of humanity. Eccentric in the essence that tapping into madness abolishes all reason of the standard society a person is in.

“No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.” ― Aristotle

Madness In A Personal Form

Some personal stories hit you like a scar on your wrist or lines on your thighs. They don’t disappear. You learn to accept what you can’t change, and in the process, it feels like madness for a while.

People can choose to be honest and true to who they are. Or they could bleed in lies, corruption, and desires that will hold them back. But some people believe they are the horrors that we perceive from scary movies, gruesome books, or even ghost stories. Although, it hurts to acknowledge that some people think they are born for madness, and others are built into madness.

We are often bought by the manipulators and cheats that enter our lives. But the toughest manipulator or cheater comes from ourselves. We are our own worst enemy. Take it or leave it. I know what it’s like to be in unbearable pain without a choice. Trust does not come easy to me. I will never give my full trust to anyone but me because of the fact that another person does not have to be real with you. You have to be real with you. This is what someone else’s madness did to me. It made me trust in me enough to forget to trust other people willingly.

“Sanity is a madness put to good uses.” ― George Santayana , The Essential Santayana: Selected Writings

What Another Person’s Madness Has Done To Me

For me, the truths I am about to tell that I have witnessed are far too common. My personal stories about madness might make you shudder, cry, and maybe laugh a little. But for me, every word of the story is excruciating to think about. People are not perfect. But I stand by the theory of accepting honest imperfection is better than accepting a perfect lie. It is a better deal, in the end, I assure you.

Let’s start at the begging and although I paint my father as a villain…I’ve realized all great villains are brought on by exterior problems, and choices. He is human too. He has done his time too. Some crimes are worth the distance I put between us. But the reality is I am a forgiving person. This does not mean I will go knocking on his door. But forgiveness makes it easier for me to live day by day with the horrors of my memories.

I joke about my nightmares like having my partner leave, someone dying, snakes, spiders…all of these are normal nightmares. All of these may happen or may not happen. The real horrors are the events that have already happened. The madness that has already seeped into our souls.

Please grab some more coffee and maybe a huggable creature for this part.

When I last lived with my father I was twelve. Tweeny years. My last night with my father was like living a frightening horror movie. ( I know he is trying to be a better man now. I hear about it through the grapevine. ) However, I relieve that night about twenty-five percent of the time when I sleep. My only lie is about what nightmares I have.

I remember that night when my mother and father had their last fight. I forget what the topic was about but it began with my father taking a computer and throwing it into one of those old large television screens. ( I was upstairs in my bedroom reading.) He would shout for me to come downstairs because my mother was beating him. But I knew better. A lier tongue ceases to get past me.

Terrified, and curled up I didn’t move. Fear frantically bit at my brain and the words on the page were starting to blur from tears. My hands shook. My brother was down the street which meant a good run would be the only way I could get ahold of him. Mom screamed for Josh. Screamed for help.

My father had her in a lock with steel toe boots holding her down. When I finally got the nerve to run and took into the flight response, I zipped down the stairs not even looking at them. If ever a superman existed…I needed him then.

I knew running to my brother would take too long. I made headway fro my best friend’s house which was about a one minute run. His father opened the door and heard my plea. He called 911 and reported the incident. But I still had to get my brother.

In a desperate attempt to get my brother, I jogged down to his close friend’s house opening their front door and entering their home like a burglar. My brother told me to run to my uncle’s house and not even stop at home. He would be the hero. He would stop this mess.

I wish things ended with the cops but by the time they made it to our home…my father had already calmed down and had a plan in motion to counter them. However, one cop chooses to stay behind. He told my mother to call them after he falls asleep and they will take him in, and her in as a way to get her bruises looked at.

She stayed in bed with my brother and me that night. Turns out dad had a gun under the bed. It also turns out my mother had thirty-eight bruises all over her body. ( She is disabled physically due to a stroke. Her right arm is tucked away behind her back.)

In a way this is madness. Madness in the sense that a man could try to manipulate the police, and buy their trust. With that said, I think eccentricity and madness are one and the same. We only perceive them differently.