David McElroy

making sense of a dysfunctional culture

emotions

I lost my way that night — and it seems I never found my way back

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It was around 4 in the morning. My head was spinning and I was confused. I didn’t recognize anything around me as I drove these dark residential streets. I was trying to get home, but I was lost.

It’s been 11 years, but the emotions and the confusion are still crystal clear. It had been easy to get to the place where I had met this woman to talk, but when I finally left — eight or nine hours later — I mistakenly started down the wrong road and became dreadfully lost.

I have no idea why that confusing night is on my mind right now. An hour or so ago, I noticed a horrible ball of emotions in the pit of my stomach. Before I knew it, I was seeing fragmentary images from that night — and I was feeling those terrible emotions.

Fear. Guilt. Shame. Loneliness. Confusion.

Getting lost that night as I left is deeply symbolic of what I did to myself that weekend. I came on a straight and clear road to meet someone that night, but I made a wrong turn and got lost. In some ways, I’ve been lost ever since.

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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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