There are four people living in my head
I talk to my voices, I know what they look like, and it's starting to scare me.
Topics: Since You Asked, Mental Illness, Life News
Dear Reader,
Well, I’ve got some stuff to deal with, so I’ll be taking a few days off here. See you next Wednesday! If you miss the column, check out the archives. There are some oldies but goodies in there. And have a good Memorial Day!
Dear Cary,
This is the first letter I’ve ever written to an advice columnist, and in some ways I’m still unsure of why I’m writing it. There are problems in my life — I’m 24 years old and still have no idea what I want to do with my life, I hate my job — but those are normal, and I feel pretty equipped to handle them. Really, I feel equipped to handle life in general; aside from a period of black depression as a teenager, my mental health is stable.
Except in one way: I talk to the voices in my head. Not out loud, if I’m in public, but certainly in the privacy of my own apartment. There are four distinct people in my head, not including myself, and they have their own lives, their own likes and dislikes, their own personalities. I know what they look like, what they sound like, what their names are. We get into arguments sometimes, but it’s usually over who gets to choose what we watch on TV, or what we have for dinner — it’s like having five friends living in one apartment. The apartment just happens to be my head. Sometimes one of them “controls” my body, and I take a back seat. We have rules about what they can and can’t do in my body, and so far there haven’t been any problems.
I know what this sounds like, believe me. I’m afraid to tell any of my friends about this huge part of my life because I’m afraid they’ll shun me (at least) or have me locked up. I don’t think I need to be locked up. Far from being a danger to me, the people in my head have kept me sane — convinced me to break up with a boy they clearly saw was bad news (he ended up being arrested for assault two months later), helped me through that period of depression I mentioned earlier, and even just kept me company when I’ve been lonely or sad. They’re not perfect, but they’re not dangerous either. They’re just boring, normal people who live in my head.
I could be wrong. I know that. Insane people don’t usually realize they’re insane, right? So I suppose what I’m asking is whether or not I should scrape up the money to see a therapist, or whether I should scrape up the courage to start telling my friends.
Cary Tennis writes Salon's advice column and leads writing workshops and retreats.
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