David McElroy

I have trouble forgiving myself for things I did in the past — but they’re things nobody else even remembers. They’re things I shouldn’t remember, either, but they’re still lurking in the back of my mind — like silent fingers pointed toward me in shame.

We all grow up emulating our parents or the other adult figures in our lives. We don’t have much choice, even if we consciously don’t like some of the things they do. We grow up believing that what we experience is normal in some way. We don’t decide to be like them. We just act that way without thinking about it.

I had no idea how dysfunctional my family was. I had a inkling — at times — that we were somehow different, but I vaguely felt proud of that. I thought we were better than other people. Whatever we were, well, that was the way things ought to be. Our way was right.

So I grew up emulating a narcissist. I had never heard of narcissistic personality disorder, of course. But I learned his ways and I acted like him. Every now and then, some tiny incident from the past comes to mind because of a tiny trigger — and I feel shame and embarrassment.

Tonight, the trigger was mashed potatoes.

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A friend sent me an unexpected note last week. He had observed me having a confrontation with a bully — and he had something to say about it.

“I wish I had your courage,” my friend’s note started. “I have wanted to tell [Bully] to ‘go to hell’ on more than one occasion, but I haven’t.”

This surprised me. I certainly hadn’t seen it as courage on my part. It just seemed like the obviously right thing to do. The bully was trying to be intimidating to me and to others — about something he knew nothing about — and I called him out on his behavior. I calmly pointed out his factual errors. When he doubled down on arrogance and bluster, I pointed out what he was doing and then moved on without allowing it to escalate.

As I’ve thought about my friend’s comment since then, it’s occurred to me that courage can be very different for different people. When I’m standing up for what I believe is right — or for people who I believe are being bullied or oppressed — it seems natural to speak up if I think I can help.

About other things, though, I’ve sometimes been a coward.

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I miss having someone to miss.

Loving someone can be a paradox. It can be the most rewarding experience of your life, and it can also be the most miserable experience of your life. But there’s something powerful and life-giving about being in love, even in those times which bring deep hurt.

Nearly five years ago, I wrote something one night when I was in the depths of a painful experience of longing for a woman who I missed. It’s not especially well-written, but it’s raw and honest, which has made it my most-read article for the last few years. A lot of people seem to read it late at night, and I get a lot of email from people either thanking me for reassuring them they weren’t alone or else begging for my advice.

At the time, I was deeply in love with a woman who I desperately wanted back in my life. My need for her was painful. It hurt to want someone back so badly, but I still had hope — so there was constant tension in my life. I was in terrible pain from missing her, but I believed the pain would be worthwhile in the end — because I believed in her and I believed she would return.

Tonight, I feel something different. I don’t feel longing or even the pain of loving someone I can’t have. I feel the emptiness of being alone — but it’s different now, because I don’t have love or hope for a particular woman to focus on.

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