How Anger and Apathy Can Coexist

They are simply so different. One is absolute rage. The other is absolute nothingness. One feels like an explosion of energy. The other feels like the complete absence of it.

It doesn’t seem to make sense that the same person can experience both. Yet I do. In bucketloads.

And they are becoming increasingly familiar acquaintances of mine. Today was the day that apathy really announced itself.

In the morning, I went out for coffee with family members, and I was almost mute. I was tuned into the conversation, but I wasn’t really listening properly, and I certainly wasn’t interested in participating. I sat there staring into space. My arms barely moved. My face barely moved. There was certainly no smile.

If it had been a date or a job interview, I would never have made it past the first few minutes.

And it wasn’t simply how I looked. It was genuinely how I felt.

That is perhaps the most frightening part. Because this is so different from the Ben I knew.

I used to participate heavily in almost every discussion, usually very keen to argue my point of view and probably far too keen to have the last word.

I led client workshops where much of what I brought was energy, engagement and the ability to read the room. I presented in front of large audiences, using my voice, body language, eyes and smile to reinforce the message. I trained consultants to do the same.

If I were grading myself today on those same qualities, I would give myself perhaps 1/10. That is quite a change to witness in yourself. And I do witness it.

That creates another strange contradiction. I am aware that I am apathetic. I can sit there and observe myself not participating. I can know that I should probably smile, say something, ask a question or join the conversation. But awareness does not necessarily give me the ability to change it.

That is the difficult thing to explain. This is not simply me deciding that I cannot be bothered. It is neurological.

PSP does not have a full-time hold on me yet. There are still periods, often after I have slept, when much more of the old me appears again. But it is gaining ground. And I dread the direction it is taking.

The anger frightens me too, but in a different way.

With anger, at least I can try to recognise the warning signs. I can walk away, stop talking, rest, breathe, apologise, seek therapy and try to build strategies around it.

I am determined to do everything I can to stop the anger from hurting the people around me.

Apathy feels more difficult. How do you fight the absence of wanting to fight? I genuinely don’t know.

For the moment, one of my approaches is simply to keep it at the front of my mind.

To notice it. To write about it. To talk about it in therapy. To ask the people around me what they see. And to see where that takes me.

In my writing, thankfully, I can still find passion. I still have the desire to explain what is happening to me. Although, if I am honest, I worry about losing that too.

And then something happened just now that reassured me slightly.

We were ordering coffee, and I asked for my usual ridiculously complicated order: decaf cappuccino, skimmed milk, extra hot and extra large.

It reminded me of something that happened a few years ago.

My wife had asked me to find some soya milk so she could make custard. I stopped at a petrol station and asked whether they sold any. They said they had run out. Then I noticed the barista area. There was clearly soya milk sitting behind the counter. I asked whether they would sell me some.

No.

So I had a brainwave. I ordered an extra-large cappuccino with soya milk. No coffee. Cold.

And I ordered two.

They looked at me and said, quite reasonably:

“That is just soya milk.”

I disagreed. “No. It is a soya cappuccino. Cold. Without coffee.” I came home with the milk.

Remembering that story finally brought a smile to my face today. And that mattered. Because the humour is still in there.

Right now, while writing this, I don’t feel particularly apathetic. There is still passion. There is still humour. There is still some fight. And perhaps that is the strangest thing about all of this.

The anger and the apathy really can live in the same brain. Sometimes within hours of each other. One moment, too much emotion. The next, almost none.

And somewhere between those two extremes, I am still trying to find myself.

The battle rages.