David McElroy

An Alien Sent to Observe the Human Race

For some of us, loss of trust is a deep existential threat to heart

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I can’t sleep tonight. There’s no physical cause. I just can’t stop myself from reliving an old hurt over and over again.

It’s not something that matters anymore. That’s why it’s so frustrating. It involves someone who’s not in my life anymore and who I don’t even want in my life. But I can’t stop feeling an awful stabbing at my heart with a pain that feels just like a physical hurt.

For years, I assumed everybody felt this way, but I slowly figured out that I have something that’s like an emotional disability — another long-term effect from childhood “programming.”

I don’t trust people very easily. If you got to know me, that might surprise you, because I can be comfortable telling people my darkest secrets pretty quickly. I can judge someone’s character and trust people about pragmatic things — honesty and safety — but it’s very rare when I can trust someone with my inner self.

My real self. My heart. Who I really am.

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Without things to look forward to, the human heart gets ready to die

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When I was a child, one of the highlights of my year was getting the Sears Christmas Wish Book. For about six weeks before Christmas, my sisters and I would go through that catalog over and over again, choosing exactly what we wanted and marking our top choices.

I remember wanting walkie-talkies and chemistry sets and electronics kits, among other things. There were always things I hoped for. Some years, I even got what I wanted.

Did I enjoy the gifts I got? Very much. I have fond memories of playing with other kids in the neighborhood with my walkie-talkies. I fascinated myself for many hours as I learned about electronics. And I joyfully mixed up disgusting things with my chemistry set. (I tried to dye the hair of one of my sister’s dolls, but I somehow turned the plastic hair green. Ooops.)

As much as I enjoyed playing with the things I got for Christmas, though, the gifts never matched the excitement and anticipation of looking forward to Christmas. Eventually, I came to understand that having something to look forward to is even more important than the things I have at the moment.

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A year later, my father’s death looms large, but I have no regrets

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There was no dignity in my father’s death.

Edward Leroy McElroy died a year ago today. He had been admitted to a hospital in Anniston, Ala., about a month before that. He was only 87 years old and he had been in excellent physical health six months before this. But when I reviewed his journal entries from the 18 months before his death, he talked often of wanting to die — and of the possibility of killing himself.

I had several conversations with a hospital social worker while he was waiting to die. She told me there was nothing specific wrong with him. He had some minor infirmities that are typical of older age, but if he hadn’t spent the previous months starving himself, he would have been fine. The social worker told me that he was too weak and frail by the time he was hospitalized. Doctors couldn’t make him strong enough to survive.

He had given up long before this. He wanted to die. He got his wish about 4:30 a.m. on April 17, 2018. A nurse named Linda Anderson was the only human being with him when his life slipped away.

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