David McElroy

I miss being arrogant and overconfident.

That sounds odd. I understand that. But it’s hard for others to understand the “superpower” that I lost when I started fixing my worst flaw. It’s impossible for me to explain to you the difference between what I feel like today and what I felt like when that photo was taken.

Imagine feeling total confidence in yourself. Imagine being convinced you were pretty much always right. Imagine knowing you could do anything you wanted to do.

It was a rush of confidence. A feeling of power. A quiet belief in my superiority. And a faith that I would always win. That’s the way I felt back then. It added up to feelings of security and self-worth and certainty.

But then I confronted my dark side. I faced my worst flaws. I confessed what I had done to hurt others. And I changed myself. Not overnight. But I changed.

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Movies and novels celebrate those who refuse to conform — those who refuse to do as they’re told. The non-conformists are often depicted as heroes who beat the system. But in the real world, human society rewards conformists — and non-conformists face ruthless consequences.

I was a conformist when I was young, but only because I was punished for stepping outside a strict set of norms. My father insisted on complete compliance with his orders and values. I occasionally got into trouble for laughing at something he found offensive. And I was strictly held responsible for obeying every order which he believed I should have known to follow, even if he wasn’t there to give the order.

I obeyed my father — and all authority figures — out of fear and training. By the time I was a teen-ager, though, I had developed non-conformist attitudes. I just knew to keep them to myself for the time being.

By the time I got to college, I didn’t fit with either group. I looked very conservative — and I chose the very conservative lifestyle for myself which continues to this day — but I felt like a wild-eyed radical on the inside. I was too conservative for the “free spirits” but I was too rebellious for the conformists.

It’s taken me many years to understand what that lack of conformity would cost me.

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For a very long time, I wondered how this would end. Would there be a dramatic climax? Or would love just slowly and quietly die from lack of tending?

It’s hard to even know what to call it anymore. It hasn’t been a relationship for a long time. It was a hope. Fondest dream. Futile faith in what a love might be? Fantasy, maybe?

Of all the things I imagined for seven years or so, I never imagined that it could end as sour grapes. But now that the hurt of lost love has faded into vague resentment instead, I can’t help but think, “I wouldn’t have wanted her anyway.”

I laugh bitterly at myself and wonder whether I tried to fool myself for years or if I’ve been trying to fool myself more recently. I’m not sure I would know when I’ve been most honest with myself — then or now — much less what was really best for all involved.

All I can do is point to Aesop’s fable called, “The Fox and the Grapes.” Do you remember the story?

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