David McElroy

If you haven’t read Part 1 of this series, “Playing it safe isn’t good enough; I have to try things that might fail,” you might want to read that first.

I don’t belong on this earth.

All my life, I’ve felt as though I was dropped off on the wrong planet, because I feel like an alien here. I feel as though I don’t belong. In fact, I feel most alone when I’m in groups of people, because it reminds me how different I feel.

In the most basic of ways, I lack connection with the vast majority of people. That leaves me feeling isolated, alone and frustrated.

As I go through life, I sometimes feel like questioning my sanity, because I see things in the world and in people and in relationships that other people seem not to notice — almost as though there’s an unspoken agreement to ignore certain things.

I feel like the little boy in “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” I feel as though almost everybody is pretending not to notice things which seem painfully obvious to me. But then I start wondering whether I really see what I think I see. Am I the one who’s imagining things?

When I try to tell others what I see, there’s mostly a shrug of indifference or else they look away as though I’ve mentioned something that’s impolite to mention. And that lack of interest from almost everyone else makes me certain that I’m an alien.

There’s something about this place — and these people — that I don’t understand.

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Nightmares always end, but when you’re in the middle of one, it seems as though it might last forever.

Last year was terrible for me. For several years, I’d been letting myself slide into a very deep hole. I was depressed. I was broke. I was alone. I was confused.

It was a nightmare that felt as though it would never end. In fact, I didn’t just slide into that deep hole. I fell into the hole and kept digging it deeper and deeper. It seemed as though nothing I could do was right. For the first time in my life, everything felt bleak and hopeless.

But I’ve finally dug my way out of the hole, even though I’ve not really recovered entirely. I’m not where I want to be in life. I don’t have the love or family I need. I haven’t achieved the things I want to achieve. I haven’t become the person I feel driven to become.

I sometimes complain about the things in my life that I’m still unhappy about, but then I see things in the lives of people I care about — and my troubles don’t seem as big as they had seemed before.

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It was about eight years ago. I was dating a woman who lived in North Carolina at the time. One day, I got a sweet and loving card from her in my mailbox, which I appreciated.

The next day, I got another one. For many days, the post office delivered another card from her. I don’t remember how many there were, but it was something like eight or nine. Great, right? It was a sweet and loving gesture from a thoughtful woman.

But I didn’t see it that way. I was a fool, because I chose to interpret something through the lens of my own thoughts and practices. I was an idiot.

Let me explain.

At some point early in the procession of daily cards, I noticed that each envelope had a tiny number written in a corner of the back. They were in order, so I quickly surmised that she had bought all the cards at once and written them all at once. She had done the whole project and numbered each envelope so she would know which to send when.

Great, right?

Now this is where I have to ask you not to judge me too harshly, because I’m embarrassed — humiliated, actually — to admit the way I reacted.

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