David McElroy

An Alien Sent to Observe the Human Race

emotions

This is my private confessional; the truths I write often scare me

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For me, writing is confession. A very private part of me is naked for you to see. I’m vulnerable and embarrassed at times — but what you see if the truth. If you want it.

If you read what I write here, you know a side of me which remains hidden from the rest of the world. Those who work with me have no idea about the things I confess to you. Those who meet me casually anywhere else would never guess about what I have to say here.

When I was young, I was very guarded, because I was afraid about what people might think of me. I wasn’t going to change who I was to suit them, but I was still afraid of their judgment. Slowly, though, that changed. I realized that I could be very open about who I am. Why?

Nobody else is paying attention to the things which I openly share — because they’re too busy being terrified about what people might think of them, too.

And so I engage in therapy here — by telling the truth — secure in the knowledge that almost nobody else will hear. And it makes me wish or hope that there are those among you who will understand and identify with my confession — who will silently say to themselves, “That’s the way I feel, too.”

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Hiding anger was a survival skill,
so you might not know I’m angry

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My crime was slight, but my father was filled with rage. While he was out of town, I had used the record player in our living room. I was about 8 years old. My mother had been there and the four of us — my two sisters, Mother and me — had wanted to listen to some music.

It was some sort of silly, child-like music. I can remember us dancing around the living room — all four of us — having a joyful time.

Then my father came home.

Somehow, he found out that I had used the record player. He had told me numerous times that I wasn’t allowed to use the record player, because I might scratch a record. I could even damage the needle. Or something terrible, apparently.

He flew into a rage and screamed at me. I stood quietly, just as I always did. I picked a button on his shirt to concentrate on. I was required to look at him, but I wasn’t allowed to say anything or show any response. That was the unspoken rule. Most of all, I couldn’t dare talk back or show any hint of anger.

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Nature struggles to keep alive
the living things that it creates

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For the last few years, I’ve struggled to kill a stubborn little weed.

I’ve never seen anything like it. I have no idea exactly what it is or where it comes from, but a tiny shoot of it keeps growing out of a little space at the top of one of my kitchen windows.

I’ve cut it. I’ve poured weed-killer into the crack between the window and the wall. I’ve killed everything outside the house that looked as though it might somehow connect to it. But no matter what I do, I keep finding a little shoot growing out of that spot, often with tiny new leaves.

I just found these latest leaves a few minutes ago. I was shocked, because I thought I’d won the battle a couple of months ago. I thought it was gone. But somehow — despite all my best efforts — it’s back again. It’s still alive.

As I stood there looking at it — again contemplating how to kill it for good — I couldn’t help but realize that Nature works really hard to ensure the survival of certain things it creates. And then it occurred to me that this was a perfect metaphor for some powerful feelings that I haven’t been able to kill.

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