David McElroy

When I’m scared or down or even humiliated by something in my life, there’s a defiant voice in me that says out loud — in a tone that sounds more like desperation — “I love you!”

I actually always include her name, but that’s not the point here. It’s not a conscious thing. It’s an unconscious pleading of some sort that I can’t explain. Some inner part of me that I don’t control turns to someone’s spirit or image in a child-like way, as though asking for shelter or love or understanding.

I don‘t know exactly when this started, but I asked a psychologist about it and she said she had never heard of anyone doing such a thing. We talked about it quite a bit over a period of weeks. She eventually had an opinion.

“You should listen to this voice,” she said in words that I’m obviously paraphrasing by now. “It seems to me that this is a primal or deep part of you that’s underneath the surface. Just like all of us, you have a lot of competing interests and voices inside — and this is the powerful, authentic voice that needs to be heard when you’re in need. You might not trust her, but you love her and you need her.”

And that was the beginning of my slow education about the competing voices inside me — and that you have inside yourself — which don’t necessarily want the same things.

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When I was about 14 years old, my family moved to a small city with a population of about 12,000 people. I thought we had moved to the end of the world.

I hated Jasper, Ala., for several years and I chafed at feeling stuck there. I had lived in bigger cities before that, places such as Birmingham, Atlanta, Washington, Pensacola and some smaller cities. Not huge places, but big enough that Jasper felt like a greasy spot on an old paper map.

I eventually came to appreciate some things about the city, but it was always a love/hate relationship. By the time I left college for the last time, I left Jasper behind fore good. I soon had no family there, so my only ties were memories of the early triumphs and pains of a teen-ager.

Other than a couple of years when I worked for a newspaper chain that transferred me to two small towns briefly, I’ve been back in Birmingham ever since. I swore I’d never live in a small city again, but I’m rethinking that lately.

In fact, I’d say that if you’re not already giving serious thought to leaving bigger metro areas behind, you’re not thinking very clearly.

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How can I miss a life I’ve never known? How can I long for someone I’ve never touched? And how can I love little people who don’t even exist?

I’ve awakened from a dream again — around 4 a.m. — and I can’t go back to sleep. I didn’t know where I was when I woke up. My bedroom felt unfamiliar, because I expected to be somewhere else. And then I realized where I was — and that the place I expected was only in the dream.

All my life, I’ve had dreams about a huge and confusing house. I came to understand years ago that my mind uses this as a metaphor for my mind and my life. The house is me. When I was young, I had a lot of dreams about trying to squeeze through a narrow passage under the house. The passage would be narrower and narrower — until I was terrified that I would be stuck there and die.

As an adult, I’ve often dreamed about the house. Sometimes different floors or wings. Or a basement. The layout changes at times. Lately, though, there’s one door I’m always drawn toward — and I know what’s behind the door.

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