David McElroy

I started my life full of hope. I believed people were good and that my future was bright.

The world was some sort of ideal and rational place, at least in my mind. A future utopia. I learned to believe — in a way that isn’t clear to me anymore — that intelligence and hard work were always rewarded. I believed most other people were decent and well-meaning. They shared my values.

Living an adult life is nothing like what my childhood led me to expect. I question the intelligence and rationality of most people. I’ve come to believe we all have some minor (or major) form of mental illness, most of which we ignore. (That means you and me, too.)

Most of all, I’ve come to see that most people don’t share my values. They’re not much like me.

I’ve discovered that high intelligence is often a handicap, not a ticket to success. Shallow hearts and dishonest actions are often rewarded instead. Most people don’t care about one another. The material utopia which I was promised has led most people to focus so much on the benefits of our material advancements that they overlook the spiritual and emotional elements which are ultimately more important. I see us as a shallow and unhappy culture.

And I have become bitterly disappointed about all of this.

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It was just a few minutes after 11 p.m. when I put Lucy’s leash on her and we headed outside for our late-night walk.

Before I even got outside, I heard unexpected noise. It sounded like people laughing. They were loud. I felt annoyed.

When I opened the front door and stepped outside with Lucy, I realized that my young next-door neighbor had a group of people over. I don’t know how many. I saw at least six extra cars.

They were at the back of the house — possibly in the back yard right next to mine — and they were loud enough that I could hear them talking and laughing all the way to the street in front of our houses. I felt mildly angry.

“He shouldn’t be having this kind of loud party this late,” I thought, “especially on a weeknight.”

As I silently walked down the street with Lucy, I kept hearing their laughter. And then it hit me why I felt angry.

They were happy. I’m not. And I felt jealous of them.

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This society is rapidly becoming a place where I no longer want to live — and it’s happening far more quickly than I expected.

It’s hard for me to be certain whether the world is the problem or if it’s really just me. Maybe what we’re going through is normal and I simply hate “the new normal.” (I detest that phrase.) Maybe I would deal with it better if it weren’t for my childhood programming.

I’m sure it’s some of both. But wherever the specifics lie, I’m feeling overwhelmed and so are lots of others. Maybe you’re feeling a bit of the same. Or maybe there’s some feeling in your gut that you’re trying to ignore.

In 1970, the futurist Alvin Toffler published a book called “Future Shock,” which he described as a psychological state of individuals and entire societies — who are experiencing “too much change in too short a period of time.”

The world was already changing quickly, but it’s accelerated. What‘s worse, it feels as though we’re passengers in a car being driven by a madman — and the madman is gunning the engine as he steers us all off the edge of a cliff.

If you’re not terrified, you’re not paying attention.

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