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A young lesbian who I casually know paid me a high compliment today.

“If I were to ever go straight again,“ she said, “it would be for a man like you.”

Liz is married — to a woman — and I have no expectation that she’s looking to start a relationship with me. I laughed at the unexpected comment and asked her why.

“You listen when I talk,“ she said. “And when you listen to me, you ‘get’ what I’m saying. You don’t look at me like you’re not even listening or you didn’t understand. You don’t even know me that well, but you ‘get’ me better than any man I ever dated. And that’s what I always wanted from a man. I wanted to be heard and understood.”

I think Liz is perfectly normal in her craving to be understood. The fact that she’s felt so little understanding from the men in her life is an indictment of our culture. We’re surrounded by more people than ever. We have technology that allegedly connects us more than ever.

But many of us have ever felt as alone as we do today.

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I’m afraid of dying.

It’s not that I fear the process of dying or what happens after death. It’s not that I fear there’s nothing that lies beyond this world after my body is still and cold.

My fears aren’t about the next world. My fears are about this life — a life that I haven’t yet lived. A life that I’ve half-lived, like a man sleepwalking through an experience that should be filled with love and joy and the ecstasy of mortal existence.

I’m afraid of dying before I ever really live.

I hate what my life has become. Every choice I’ve made seemed to make sense in the moment, but the choices have brought me to a place of unhappiness. Depression. Emptiness. Regret. Hurt.

I hate the experience of living the life I have created, but I don’t want to die. I love this world too much. I love what I know my life could be. And I hunger for the life that would allow me to die in peace one day — knowing I had loved and created joy for those I love.

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I was about 14 years old when I figured out how to bug my family’s home telephone.

Although it was a touchtone phone instead of rotary dial by then, it looked a lot like this one. It was mounted on a wall in a hallway in the middle of the house. I had been tinkering for years with wires, batteries, phone parts and tape recorders. I understood the basics of the technology.

The cable containing four wires ran down the wall and through the floor to an unfinished basement. It was there that I conducted my experiment. I figured out how to trigger the power to a tape recorder when the phone rang. I had spliced the two wires carrying voices into a line-in cable to the recorder.

Every time the phone started ringing, the recorder started — with the record buttons already in position — and it recorded the conversation. I don’t recall how I rigged it to know when a call was over.

For a long time, I’ve told this story with amusement, but it wasn’t until the last few years that I understood what it was all about. The real insight in this story is that I didn’t trust anybody — and I thought nothing of betraying their trust, too.

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