Its the whispers. When I’m sitting, nestled under my blankets, curled up against the arm of the couch. Quiet, posed, tired. I am reading, or watching tv, or scrolling aimlessly through my phone. The sun is setting in front of me, the soft blue curling over the orange, chasing it down the horizon. My toes are cold, the socks I was once wearing somewhere in the room. Probably by the kitchen (I hate wearing socks in the kitchen), or by the bathroom (I hate wet socks even more).
They start so low I barely hear them. A gentle rush of white noise in my ear; easily ignored. At one moment, I pause. I think I hear something, but I wait half a second before returning back to my show. It’s Suits, on Netflix. Harvey and Mike are doing something crazy as usual. Jessica is girlbossing, also per usual. Donna and Rachel are unflinchingly honest, and Louis is in louis-ville. I pause again, this time sure I have heard something, and refusing to press play until I know for certain. Then, they reach me.
It happens the same way each time, that you’d think I’d expect it by know. But I don’t, because of all the other minutes in the day when I don’t have to hear it. So, it is surprising, but not shocking when it comes. The message is always the same, these quiet washes of serenity, soft existential waves. A sudden awareness of gratitude or despair. I can’t escape the whispers. In my lone, comfortable moments, they call to me. They ask me why I deserve to be happy, or they remark that happiness is so beautiful. They demand that I be sad, or exult in my circumstances. It’s one extreme or another, like a 19th century philosopher in conversation with another.
I try not to let them get to me, but sometimes they do. Sometimes they make me so happy, I cry with joy. Other times, they bring me to such a low, I have to sleep it off, or walk it off, or, I guess, cry it off as well. Sometimes it makes me laugh, or makes me silly. But the whispers began in my twenties. They began when everyone started to tell me to be taller, shorter, thinner, fatter, richer, more frugal, happier, sadder, more extroverted, more introspective, more assertive, more submissive, SAVE more, SPEND now, GIVE more, TAKE it all—–and on and on.
The whispers are a product of everyway that I have been told I am right or wrong, or good or bad. I’m not sure how to make them stop, but I have reduced their effect of me. These whispers, they’ve become my companion in adulthood where once they were bullies. They speak to me, and not through me. I am not their mouthpiece, I enjoy the peace when it comes, sure. I bask in the happiness when that’s what the whispers were about. But everything else? I listen, and I take a second to process. But that’s it. They are whispers, and every other sound is real and present. It fades into the background of my days, and I am grateful I’ve learned to live with them. They are the greek chorus in my life’s play, the interlude in my song. An essential part of my narrative in the sense that they speak to what I am feeling in the moment. Be it doubt or fear or thankfulness or joy.
I bundle back under the blanket, shaking off the overwhelming whispers and the feelings they evoke. I press play, and the sounds of arguing on Suits fill my ear again. The whispers recede, for now. They know when they have been beat. But they will be back tomorrow, or next week or next month. Of that, I am sure of.
Me, Myself and Thine 