Notes against the rager

An exploration of enraged perfectionism, inspired by anecdotal accounts.

If he aspires for every sentence he speaks to be absolutely true—to which there can be no chance, as truth in itself cannot be absolute—then he will only find torment idly waiting at the cuts of this winding life. Such is the case, so then what prevents a man from seeing the falsities of his behavior, his actions, his inner constitution? What disposes man to rage? Uncontrollable rage? There is an entity known as the rager, that I wish to account to you. Perhaps his behavior may remind you of someone you know, or someone you don’t wish to know, but only preemptively understand. Whatever the case, I must make note, against the rager.

For starters, there’s the prime truth the rager champions: that he is capable of being wrong, and will most assuredly check himself if he is so, ironically enough. That prime truth, is then encircled by truths that contravene that very truth, by remarks that air the mists of perfectionism or enlightenment. Remarks that, if provided strong internal reinforcement, makes the act of admitting wrongdoing or ignorance appear like a rare case, the slippage of an otherwise enlightened and collected mind. A man of such a mind will fight to never be wrong, always to a dragging fault, always to a stumbling trot and eventual slip. The cases I observe are as conspicuous as there is life. I share them now.

I stood at the bottom level of the factory, gazing out at the thick rain and the water stretched like blinds when facing the cars. A family of geese paraded themselves to the end of the road, towards a small pond, just past a sketchy dip in the tiny woods. The little taps and subtle buzz of the striking water made for a calming ambiance, another ephemeral—though always valuable— opportunity to travel within myself. Gloomy days as such have become sirens for my introspecting mind, a reminder that I too must pass like the rain and that to allow this place to occupy my opportunities, inasmuch as I allot acceptance to, would mean to let those very opportunities pass like the leaking clouds under the sky. Thoughts like this have become commonplace and I have a poor time managing my less-than-ideal circumstances. Still, there’s hope in trying.

“I like the rain,” the rager said, appearing from my periphery, “The rain helps me ease up. I don’t understand why people hate rainy days.” “Mhm.” Much can’t be rationalized, complaining about having your peace ruined in a public place. But I wished to complain and fought arduously with myself not to. The Stoic mantra of not assenting to blunt impressions rang loud in my mind but it is always a fight not to give in to them; they almost never carry merit, but for the rager they almost always do. “You know what I realize?” “Hm?” “That you should never get with a woman that can’t feel your effort at a distance.” He says this as a brother of mine and then another enter the fray, M and N, a means away from his focused attention, but not the conversation entirely. He spoke to them passionately, “I just had my ex-wife call me yesterday. She was having another one of her moments and shit.” “Oh really?” Said N, having just mastered entertaining the rager. “She wanted to get mad at me because our daughter needed supplies and she was getting snippy with her. Then she wanted to drag me in. The bitch always wants to drag me into everything.” “Hm.” “Like if you let it be and you be the adult and do what you have to do, you can tell me and I would’ve taken care of it. But she always wants to try to take control of the situation.” And so on he went about the incompetence of his ex-wife until N finally interjected, a man of his age, to inject some much-needed perspective. The perspective provided the rager time to relax his passions, but little more.

“You know, at the end of the day I know my value as a man and I used to be that man who would lash out and get angry at this shit, but I’m done with that. I’m trying to be calm and mellow and she’s trying to push my buttons and I’ll have none of that.” The way he speaks often makes his daughter seem like a non-factor, a mere prop in the world of his own indignations. He does have a tendency also of highlighting his values when it comes time to fortify himself. His usual “calmness” and “mellowness” are more or less periods of being unchallenged, rather than they are real virtues he carries at all times. I will speak of a few cases soon, but I most note a few more things.

The case of the rager is riddled in tendencies of drawing lines and manufacturing enemies. With enemies, there can be purpose, drive, and—most importantly—rationalizations for anger. To this end his ex-wife has become a common supplement for anger, an excuse to yell and slam things and make such hellacious remarks, and to thereafter attempt to pivot himself as a sage of wisdom. It’s a twisted fantasy, truly, but he is not alone in this habit. The daughter becomes an ancillary tool because she lies in the middle. Not so long ago, the rager would tell us of how his daughter was longing to stay with him and always preferred he over the mother, but that because of his new space and his desire for solitude, “I tell her it’s best to try to get along with the woman because she’s dealing with her own demons.” These remarks have ceased, as of a few months ago, when tensions between he and his daughter were beginning to fester. Makes one wonder how the full caricature of their dynamic actually looked.

Demons in mind, I must speak of one instance in which he unleashed and exercised one. We would learn soon after this that the cause of his rage originated from frustrations with his daughter and family. I say this now because it would come as no surprise later.

It was a bright morning and the early June sun was still holding its bearing, a fine day before the periods of dreadful heat. I had arrived a bit late and the gates were open as usual and both the bay doors were raised. All appeared normal when I passed the gate and went around the trucks, but then I saw M silently exiting the main room to my left, his head shaking in disdain. I’m rather confused but assumed that the rager probably handed him another pointless lecture—which is all-too-common, and so I approached N to make our routine rounds of small talk. He seemed in a better mood, so I thought nothing of before. That was, until the rager stepped out of his office.

The rager pounced around rather aimlessly, huffing and puffing and groaning, like a child trained in the arts of tantrumism. He began hitting things before locking eyes with a sledgehammer, positioned cross-wise the bay door and rested against a metal beam, just before the aisles. Whether his eyes gleamed or he simply wanted to put on a show is none but a mystery to I, but he grabbed it and began launching its head against a wooden pallet closest to the bay doors, where all four of us brothers now stood in toe, trying to make sense of this nonsense.

“We can’t keep doing this shit! We can’t keep losing shit!” “What?” Says Mn, one of the brothers, “What happened man because I’m confused.” “M Is saying he didn’t lose the gas card from yesterday so someone’s gonna have to speak up before I get real pissed.” “Don’t you remember? You gave it to me. I have it in the van.” I had to reinforce that statement, as I was offered that same card but refused it, and so I ascertained to his point. The rager blankly stared and then started once more, “Y’all keep playing with me and I’m getting tired of it seriously.” “Who’s playing with you? I told you I have it.” “Is there a problem Mn? Do you want to tell me something cause it sounds like you want to tell me something.” The rager turned his attention to Mn, having since abandoned the thought of this lost gas card. “Man it’s nothing. I’ll just go grab it.” And that was it. Mn went and grabbed the lost gas card and the rager stood there like an idle fool, surely processing through what reason he could give to us. The brother N gazed at the rager with a reproachful eye and that seemed to break his spirit enough to finally speak. “It’s not a big deal guys it’s just, one of those days waking up. I feel like I woke up with the devil on my back *yes that statement was very much real* and it’s just…” He took a typical long inhale and motioned his hands around and his eyes were seeking something, though all the thoughts scattered in his mind. “I just feel like people have been playing with me recently, and I’m getting tired of it…” I cannot recount what more he said but it felt like a repeat of smaller instances. Any consideration of attentiveness was overshadowed by the defensive, victimized front he had now raised. I very much began questioning his integrity from that point on.

There was another instance not so long ago where he had to chase N back, following another spell of rage. Recounted to me from M, the rager had impetuously assumed that N was not working because he was pushing loads while on the phone, something we all commonly do. He figured that since M was managing the rounds of load at the front, he was somehow doing all of the work. Little did the rager understand, M and N had a system in play to balance the work and reach their break faster. The details of that system are irrelevant, but it was optimal for a Friday and made complete sense to me, not so much to the rager. Apparently he had gone into such a flux that he began slamming the forklift against objects as he rushed to send pallets up the mezzanine. He brazenly pushed against metal gates and even toppled over a large pile of heavy boxes, most weighing around 30-40 pounds. He then ran into his office and N followed, fed up with the rager’s nonsense. They had a discussion and N had reached his limit and left the factory. And the rager, having survived the storm of his anger, rushed to salvage the brotherly connection he had risked jeopardizing.

They spoke and resolved the matter, but then the rager oddly recounted the story to me the following week, when N had gone about his deliveries. The entire story flipped: he seemed like the reasonable one. N was the one interrupting, not listening, and the rager did not like watching M pick up all the slack. “But did the situation resolve itself?” I asked, having now heard the second perspective. “It did… It’s just, c’mon man.” He went on about his expectations for us and then gleefully went home. I would not hide such information, and I spoke to N about it in the afternoon. Bold man as he is, he immediately confronted the rager and the rager retracted all that he had said. What an amusing case.

It’s been a strange time with the rager since. That is to be expected, when a man’s incontinence is exposed and the man he aims to be is no longer being met at the summit. Every thought since has been doubled over; now doubt appears more prevalent. His hesitation has become more pronounced and seldom does he regard his mellow nature anymore. His vindictive nature has uprooted his faux virtue, and he is now closer to his true self than he ever has been. If a man is broken, his parts can only remain pressed together for so long before the paste itself cracks and breaks or his spirit tires out. For the rager, little can be done if not for a total psychological reset of mind. Otherwise, his veil will eternally weaken.

I recount this story as a man looking to escape. There is little to fantasize about.

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