My Real Memoir

Whatever I might become, after my meltdown there was no going back to who I’d been. My first year as a grad student had ended. I’d taken off like Lindberg and crashed like the Hindenburg. And now there was nothing to distract me from the wreckage of the former me. Or what I’d thought was me, at any rate. Had I always been a sham?

In eighth grade, I’d gained some cred as a clever guy, and even run for class president. But then my cousin Frankie started hunting me down at lunchtime. He’d stand beside me as I regaled someone with a “there was this one time” story. Then he’d poke me in the arm and ask over and over again in a whiny voice, “Whatcha talkin’ ‘bout, Mitchie?” I’d never been a “Mitchie,” not even as a baby. He never told me why he did this. But I suspect he was trying to take me down, to make me lose my cool and reveal the pathetic oddball I really was.

Anxiety was my new Frankie, always there poking me in the arm, taunting me to lose it in public and be cast into outer darkness. My own personal hell. My fear of losing control often veered toward the spiritual. I’d just seen a movie The Omen, and liked it. But it had also prompted me to obsess over good and evil. Could I in my madness be “invaded” by evil, like in The Exorcist (which I’d seen the previous year)? Or was there something that would protect me from it? Could faith do that?

I’d “tried on” faith during the Arts Festival I directed the previous month. A group of sacred dancers had gotten cold feet (which can’t be good if you’re a dancer). “Listen,” I told them, “this is your chance to get the word out.” I liked feeling like I was part of something bigger than myself. They smiled and made a place for me in their prayer circle. But I pretended to not to notice and hurried away.

A short time later, I drove to a church called Calvary Chapel that was at the very heart of the booming “Jesus Movement.” My ex-fiancée Kat had told me about it.

I pulled into the parking lot just as the last few cars were leaving–something had ended. I was disappointed. And relieved. Still, I got out and walked up to the entrance of the main building. There, I found two young women arguing over evolution vs. creation. They seemed to regard it as some kind of believer’s litmus test.

Again, “trying on” faith, I asked, “Is this really the main thing? You both believe in Jesus, right?” “Yes!” they said in keen harmony. “So maybe you can give each other a pass on this? I mean, only God knows exactly how he did it, right?” They laughed, hugged, and agreed to pray together. I slipped quickly away.

Back in my car, I tried to soak up some of the peace I’d felt talking with them, hoping to take it home with me. And then, on impulse, I drove to my little arts academy. Went into the unlit dance studio/theatre, and said, “Listen, God, I really need you to be real. Because I don’t think I can be…

Unless you are.”

My Real Memoir is a series. To read the next one, click here.