David McElroy

When I was growing up, I was often ambivalent about sports. By the time I was a student at the University of Alabama, I was borderline-hostile about the sports that were so important to my fellow students and many of the people around me.

I was in Tuscaloosa to learn, not to waste my time with something so brain-dead. That was what I told myself. I thought I was too good — too academically pure or some such — to care about a bunch of athletes pushing themselves around in the grass.

It wasn’t until about 10 years after I left college that I started to care about football and basketball. But let’s reword that. I didn’t suddenly discover that I loved these games or the intricacies of how they were played.

I discovered that I loved my university. Quite unexpectedly, I found that keeping up with these “childish games” gave me something I craved.

It wasn’t about football. It was a sense that I was a part of something much larger than myself.

When I watched the Alabama Crimson Tide — on the field or on the court — I realized that I wasn’t just rooting for athletes. I was experiencing pride.

This was my university. This was part of who I was.

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I keep being reminded that I don’t fit in this place.

That thought is always in the back of my mind. I’ve felt it for most of my life. But there are certain days when it seems as though the reminders are everywhere. After another one of those days Thursday, I am feeling incredibly alone tonight.

Again.

Nothing bad happened to me Thursday. Nobody rejected me or insulted me. I didn’t have an argument with anybody. Instead, I had two perfectly friendly conversations with people I’ve known for years, but I walked away from them feeling strangely depressed and isolated.

The specifics of the conversations don’t matter. In fact, explaining them would probably sidetrack what I have to say onto different issues. Neither person said anything shocking or offensive. They both simply expressed perfectly ordinary assumptions about life and the world around us — assumptions which wouldn’t have seemed noteworthy to most people.

But those two conversations jerked me back to reality. They reminded me that I’m the alien here.

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I haven’t been able to escape all of the dysfunctional programming from my childhood.

It’s not that I haven’t tried. It’s not that I haven’t grown emotionally and done a lot of psychological healing. It’s just that bits and pieces of the dysfunction affect me when I least expect it. I can feel like a normal and healthy adult when something randomly triggers things that I hope I’ve conquered.

“We own you!” the voice seems to hiss. “We tell you what to do. What to think. You’re not good enough. Nobody likes you. Everybody is attacking you. They’re disappointed in you. What’s wrong with you?”

Who is the voice?

It’s hard to say for sure. Whatever it is started with my narcissistic father. He was angry and critical and demanding with me. He taught me to be afraid. He taught me to doubt myself. He taught me to fear that I was being attacked and demeaned and belittled.

And even though he’s been dead for years, some remnant of his voice still lives in my head in a form I can’t quite explain or understand. But whatever it is, I can say one thing clearly.

That voice is a liar.

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