“For you, though, Erik,” he concluded, “it is paramount.”
He was right, of course. I carried so much regret from letting ideas like CartAds or the billiards hall slip away. I beat myself up for decades over projects I never finished. I created narratives like, “I’m an ideas guy, not a follow-through guy.” Such thoughts are just self-fulfilling prophecies. That’s all these narratives really are. They’re insidious beasts that fool us into thinking that they are protecting us from some future failure. Instead, they are jailers that keep us locked up. I needed to make peace with the regret. I needed to change the story in my head.
I asked Ira why it felt so scary to let go of old stories.
“Mostly because you’ll lose people.”
I didn’t understand and suspect my furrowed brow and cocked head gave me away.
He continued. “In repeating these stories, you have taught people what to think of you and how to treat you. If you no longer accept the limitations you place on yourself and your dreams, some of the people you think are your friends won’t like it. They will fight to keep you small.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because they are scared too.”
Wow. This made sense to me. It explained why I got so excited when I would finally try to express myself in what felt like more authentic ways. Or when I would try to start a new project. Only to become incredibly defensive and angry when one person shot it down. That’s all it took. One. “Yeah. It’s a stupid idea.” That’s how it usually went. And I’d slink away in shame. The shame of not honoring my inner voice. The shame of more regret. Shame then became more lies and more bad decisions.
Damn, why was it so fucking hard to express myself? To express my needs?
Why must it be courageous to write or sing or speak publicly?
Why did I play so small and put others on a pedestal for no real reason?
Why did I think someone was better than me or that I didn’t deserve their time?
I thought I knew the answer to these questions. All that therapy had to be good for something. But why couldn’t I get beyond it? Despite knowing I was capable of so much more, of living so much bigger. I know we have life experiences that get trapped inside of us and create these damn narratives. We are born perfect and immediately begin getting reprogrammed. Fuck.
God interrupted my thoughts. “At some point, you have to trust that you have all the information you need. You need to trust that you have nothing to fear. You need to stop lying to yourself and others.”
“Bu. . .” I tried to interrupt.
God wasn’t having it and kept talking.
“Enough. These are choices, Erik. At some point, you have to take responsibility for your own life and make your own choices.”
“Bu. . .”
This time God just put up his hand.
“The struggle you’re having right now is that you think the right choice should feel easy. But choices are often at their most difficult in the moment. Then, they mature into ease. They don’t always start that way.”
I was feeling scolded, but God was exactly right. I did think that the right choices should feel light and flowy. With a heavy sigh, I got lost in my head, considering CartAds, the pool hall, the sports ticket website I didn’t pursue, the girl I didn’t ask out, and all the other chances I didn’t take. All the times I didn’t speak up. My mind was spinning with visions of “What if this?” and “What if that?” and. . . wait! I suddenly understood that these broken dreams were all exactly the same thing! They were all manifestations of me not trusting myself. They were all opportunities to trust myself and follow through. And I didn’t respond to the invitation. For a second, I wondered if Fate had anything to do with any of them. Well, if he won’t trust himself with that one, maybe this one will take.
Trust myself.
Trust myself.
Trust myself.
Was this the reconciliation? I wasn’t sure. It felt like it. God and I sat in silence. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and said a prayer of gratitude. When I opened them, Ira was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Challenges at home result in a woman losing her job due to poor performance. She tells the story to another woman in the elevator who notices the family picture in the box she’s carrying. The other woman offers her a new job before they reach the lobby.
My former camp director and I now sat together, watching the colors shift. I had screwed him over when I was just out of college. I had committed to working for him as a unit head, but three days before the summer session was about to start, I took another job and left him hanging. The other offer was more of a career than just “working at camp.” It was a decision that changed my life forever. I didn’t understand camp could also be a career. This decision was one of the great “sliding door” moments of my life and one I thought about often. I felt whole at camp, but I didn’t let myself have it. I didn’t trust myself. He forgave me instantly. It made sense that he was God at this moment.
We watched Blondie splash in the water. This moment sort of felt like those times when a sports announcer lets a dramatic event play out without any words. Like a walk-off home run in the World Series. Only, instead of listening to the deafening roar of a crowd, I was lost in the sounds of birds singing along to breezes strumming tall lakeside reeds.
My eyes were closed when God said quietly, “I’m just thinking. What would happen . . . Nah, never mind.”
“Are you serious? No. No. No. God does not do that.” I was practically jumping out of my skin. For starters, I practically invented that. And furthermore, no. God, of all . . . of all . . . of all . . . whatever he is, does not hesitate to share his thoughts. “Spill it.”
More fucking silence. This guy is killing me with the silence.
“You have an idea? What is it?” I fidgeted some more. No amount of time spent learning to meditate and listening to Andy on the Headspace app could prepare me for this. That said, I did love Andy’s voice. Had a bit of a man crush on that guy. But now, he was no help to me whatsoever. My mind was spinning.
I had thought about dying nearly every day of my life. Like I told God—the story started from birth. But to finally talk about it so openly felt like a relief. I kind of wanted to spill the beans on all of my deepest, darkest secrets. On all the other dead dreams that were probably lurking around somewhere. Even all the mistakes and transgressions. Every lie. Every cheat. All of it.
Andre Agassi wrote a book called Open in which he eviscerated himself. I imagined him running a sharp blade from his throat to his belly and opening his rib cage, exposing his heart, offering his soul, and saying, “Fuck it.” I knew it couldn’t have been easy, but I also knew he must have felt amazing when he was finished with it. I had wanted to do the same thing as soon as I finished reading it. To write something transformative, and just cut myself open. If I could just unleash my soul and free the skeletons, my desire to die would also be released. I can’t be judged if I accept open responsibility for all of it. Nobody can. Accountability is the ultimate salve.
Headspace Andy would be annoyed with me right now. I was off in la-la land and nowhere near the moment. It was a defense mechanism that I had refined for decades, but it was also the genesis of a pattern. I brought myself back from Andre Agassi and his remarkable journey to follow his soul’s truth.
I asked, “So you said something about an idea?”
“I’m just trying to find the right words.”
I was slightly comforted by the fact that God could struggle for the right words. Then again, this God is my manifestation. So maybe it shouldn’t be surprising at all. I kind of liked the idea of a flawed God. He caught me in that thought.
