Monday, December 9, 2013

Meet the Crew

Talking about voices in your head can get a little alienating, am I right?  We're all picturing Ginny Weasley with Tom Riddle telling her to kill chickens?  Or maybe a little Haley Joel Osment seeing dead people. Whichever it is, it's crazy face.


Buuuuut I've already started talking about them, so we might as well ride that train.  When I talk about voices, I don't mean that there are actual external forces talking to me.  I don't hear specific voices and words.  I mean the voices that everyone has - the instincts, or conscience, or whatever else you want to call them.  My voices are loud.  Doctor's call them, "Intrusive Thoughts".  I call them Barbara.  This (reasonably) creeps Steven out, so I don't do it often.

When I'm on my meds, the voice is like a toddler.  She whines and pushes my buttons. Sometimes she naps.  And once in a while she throws a huge, whopping tantrum.



In this case, there are two options.  Option One is that I fight it to the death and let it scream and rage until it calms down.  Which is stressful, but comes with a sense of accomplishment.  Option Two is that I give in because it's just a little easier on everyone else the grocery store.

Off my meds, the voice is like a creepy old man.  An ex-mob guy.  And he calmly tells me to start stairs on my right foot.  He quietly mentions I need to make that noise with my throat.  Under no circumstances should I pet. that. dog. He says that I better get out of the shower, take my ring off, brush my hair and lotion my hands and face in that order.


And I do it, because I know if I don't he will press down on my chest.  He will make my skin crawl.  He will keep me awake at night.  He will steal the breath right out of my lungs.

Sound dramatic?  It is.  A little more dramatic than I'd like, and I'm a theatre major. Marlon Brando with cotton-stuffed cheeks has been chilling around in my brain since I was 8, telling me to do stuff that I know doesn't make sense.  I KNOW it doesn't make sense. There's nothing more infuriatingly ridiculous than sitting in a room full of your elementary school classmates and squeaking like a mouse because if you don't The Godfather's cronies will sit on you.

Sooooo I take Escitalopram.  Which turns fear into calm.  A mountain into a molehill.  Marlon Brando into a two-year-old.  I can do that.  I can do that.










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