David McElroy

It was nearly 12 years ago. I had come back to see a psychologist with whom I’d been in therapy before. I had just ended a romantic relationship in a very confusing way — and I needed to understand why.

I laid out the facts for the psychologist about what had just happened. I explained my confusion. Why had I ended the relationship — but then wanted her back after she finally gave up and walked away from me? Was I crazy or what?

She listened for most of that hour and then gave me a little bit of feedback and asked a few follow-up questions. At one point, she said — as though it was the most obvious thing in the world — that this woman with whom I’d been in love had come from a dysfunctional and troubled past, but hadn’t dealt with it.

I didn’t think I’d said anything that would lead to that conclusion, so I expressed surprise.

“Oh, I don’t know what her issue is yet,” she said, “but she wouldn’t have been attracted to you — and you couldn’t have been attracted to her — if she didn’t have issues just as serious as yours. People are attracted to others who are about as emotionally healthy as they are, whether they know it or not.”

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I don’t really want to sell you a house. I wish I did.

You know how you sometimes admit something to yourself that you’ve been trying to hide? I had one of those moments this week — when I couldn’t even try to lie to myself.

I was waiting inside this nice $425,000 house for a potential buyer to arrive. I had arrived 15 minutes early and had the house to myself. I decided to record an impromptu video that I could use as a promotion. I started recording about half a dozen times but stopped in disgust each time.

“I don’t want to sell houses,” I suddenly said out loud. And I was glad no one was there to hear me.

For the last five or six years, I’ve felt as though my life was on hold. I felt like someone treading water. I’ve worked in real estate — because it was a convenient opportunity — but I’ve hated work every day. And it makes me long for the days when I was excited about work instead.

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I was stuck in traffic on I-20 just east of Birmingham Thursday evening when my phone rang. In the previous 30 minutes, traffic had inched forward only about a hundred yards as emergency vehicles dealt with a wreck a mile or so ahead of us. I glanced at the ringing phone.

I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t expect to see her name. How long had it been since we had talked? I didn’t recall. Why was she calling?

Part of me wanted to let it go to voicemail. Things hadn’t ended on a pleasant note for us. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear from her. But I decided it would be cowardly to ignore the call, so I answered right before it would have gone to voicemail.

“I wasn’t sure you were going to answer,” she said.

”I almost didn’t,” I admitted.

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