Inside Voices

I have two inner voices. One is the part that came with me, the part that I’ll take with me, the part that is me. The other one is part of the software that came with my compostable container. It’s more of a tape recorder in that it plays back the memes that shaped me growing up, and it seems utterly bent on keeping me in my place.

“You’re an idiot,” it tells me.

“That won’t work.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Who are you kidding?”

“Shut up. No one cares what you think.”

It’s bossy and derisive and judgmental and relentlessly unforgiving.

It tries to deceive me into believing that it’s actually my other inside voice, the one that’s true and wise and eternal. I also think it’s getting worried. I’m learning to tell the difference, you see. In fact, I’ve recently tried a trick of my own, and while I’m hiccupping a bit, I am determined to persevere until a new, healthier habit forms.

The other day I stapled two invoices together. On discovering my error, I immediately berated myself. Moron, I thought, ripping out the staple.

Wait a second, someone else said. It was an accident and no one died. ‘Moron’ is unduly harsh.

The internal debate ensued. Well, yeah, said the first voice, but she should have known better.

Keep beating her up and she’ll keep making the same mistakes, the second pointed out.

That’s the point, really. The first voice needs me to stay stupid so it can feel needed. It doesn’t offer any brighter alternative, but it gets to keep its job. In other words, it stays relevant.

We all need that voice. It’s the voice that ensures survival at all cost, that motivates and assesses and preserves us as mortals. Unfortunately for it, the job is only temporary, so it tries to make itself more important by holding us back, by reminding us that we’re failures without it, or that we can only be successful if we heed its sage advice; advice, incidentally, which is strategically worded to keep us from trying.

I digress.

The inner dialogue is ongoing, like the ticking of a clock. Sometimes you hear it, sometimes you don’t. When I hear mine, it’s usually the aforementioned first voice and it’s almost always deriding me for something and calling me stupid into the bargain. Whoa, buddy. Catch me on a gaffe, by all means, but instead of snarling, “Idiot,” try something gentler, like, “Oh, sweetie.”

Basically, I’m watching to catch myself on the lip of an insult with the intention of changing said insult to a term of endearment. I’ve done it a couple of times—it’s actually appalling, how frequent the opportunities are—and it might just be working. In fact, the opportunities seem to be dwindling.

Ironic, isn’t it? The voice that takes such pleasure in correcting me harshly would rather be silent than be corrected itself.

Who’s the real idiot?

With love,