David McElroy

making sense of a dysfunctional culture

Why do we often attract the folks who are most destructive for us?

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I’m surrounded by idiots. And narcissists. And rude people.

At least that’s the way it feels. When I get frustrated with life — as happens more often than I like to admit — I feel my internal pressure rising and I want to get as far away from humans as I can. I want to be a hermit.

But when I think about it with less fear and anger, I’m confused by the situations in which I find myself. I know the world is full of amazing people — those whose thinking and interests and curiosity are more like my own — but I rarely get to spend time with those people.

Why?

And why is it that I somehow end up spending so much time with people who help me recreate horrible old emotional dynamics from my past? Even people with perfectly good intentions can make me feel as though I’m struggling against my father’s oppressive control.

Why do I attract such people into my life — and somehow push away those with whom I would be happier?

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Night of panic and little sleep shows chaos of finding my way

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There were two little girls with me and we were walking on a highway with a bunch of other people. Everybody was focused on escape, so we moved as quickly as we could. It was night and the only light was from the stars.

I don’t know what we were running from or why we couldn’t travel in cars. The younger of the girls was about 3 years old. I know she was my daughter. The other was her sister, but I don’t think I was her biological father. The older girl was about 9.

The younger girl wanted me to carry her, but I finally had to put her down to walk on her own. We were exhausted.

And then something under parts of the road started getting hot and turning red, as though there was molten lava underneath. I dropped something else that I had been carrying so I could pick up both girls. People were screaming and panicking all around us.

But I had to get these girls back to their mother.

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It’s great to visit Memory Lane, but it’s fatal to try to live there

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I took a shortcut Friday afternoon from my office to my barber shop that took me through an industrial area where I used to spend a lot of time.

I hadn’t been on that part of Oxmoor Road in Homewood for about 15 years. Several of the printing companies I used to deal with — when I was a political consultant — are located in the area, so I was flooded with memories of late-night visits to do press-checks on mail pieces for my clients.

I printed dozens of jobs at Craftsman Printing right over there. Across from them was the old building where PressTech used to be before the owner — a man who did me more favors than I can count — unexpectedly killed himself on the press floor late one night.

My memory was flooded with faces and images and sensations of my time in the area. Part of me enjoyed the sweetly bitter sensation of experiencing a past which is now dead, but another part of me wanted to leave the area and never return. And then I had a sudden thought.

Memory Lane is a one-way street — and it’s a dead end.

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