David McElroy

She never really goes away, but she’s also never really there. Like a ghost from another life — a life which I once lived with her — she haunts my dreams and intrudes on my waking hours.

It’s not convenient to live with a ghost from the past. My conscious mind has buried her over and over again. But just when I start thinking I’ve won the long struggle to put her behind me, I remember she’s still in this world. And it all comes flooding back.

Her face. Her eyes. Her voice. Her words. Her habits and her thoughts. Her goodness and her fatal flaws. And then I can’t stop the tidal wave of emotions. It exhausts me, because I’m left with nothing but unanswered questions.

As I walked down an aisle of a grocery store late Saturday night, I suddenly heard something in my heart ask, “Do you still miss me? I still miss you.”

And I felt her presence. She was there. But she was there as a shimmering ghost from the past, not as a real woman who could love me or answer my questions.

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In high school, I hated pep rallies — but I wasn’t sure why.

I just knew I felt uncomfortable when the band was playing and everybody was excited and cheering. I felt oddly out of place. I never told anybody this, but I felt embarrassed of myself. I didn’t clap or cheer or whatever else the crowd around me was doing.

I felt horribly conflicted, although I didn’t understand that at the time. Part of me was excited by the music and cheering and chanting — but I was afraid to let myself go. I was afraid to feel anything. And that made these public displays of emotional frenzy seem very dangerous to me.

I felt coldly numb as I grew up. In middle school, some kids laughingly called me “Spockelroy,” which was someone’s clever mixture of “Spock” and “McElroy.” I was the brilliant rationalist who didn’t feel anything — and who never expressed emotions.

I understand why now.

The loss of my mother had hurt me more than I understood. My fear of my father’s unpredictable narcissistic rage was constant. I had learned that I got into trouble if I expressed my unhappiness.

I learned to remain numb. Not to feel. It was how I survived.

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And here, she’s acting happy
Inside her handsome home
— Harry Chapin, “Taxi”

I don’t know who the email came from. He or she claims I don’t know the sender, so I have no idea what the motivations were. But I’ve been thinking about it for days.

The message was short. It was about a woman who used to love me. Someone who I’ve loved very much — but someone who didn’t choose me when I wanted her to.

After a brief introduction, the writer got to the heart of the matter.

“You don’t know me, but I know all about you,” the message said. “She’s unhappy and depressed, maybe suicidal, though she hides it well. She acts happy and fakes it well most of the time, but I’ve seen through the cracks and she’s about to fall apart. She’s too proud to change anything, but I’m scared about what she might do. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but I thought you should know.”

And I’m left to wonder why I should know.

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