Just because I’m paranoid, doesn’t mean the voices in my head aren’t real. What voices? They don’t like it when I speak of them, so I am going to speak in parentheses so they do not hear me.)
Riding the in the car yesterday with my son, the radio was playing Barber’s adagio, a mournful and eerily melancholy piece. It has long been one of my favorites. I tried to get my son to turn off his PSP long enough for him to try to develop an appreciation for it.
He asked me to tune the radio to what he calls ‘his’ station while I kept extolling the specific virtues of the adagio, of Barber, and of classical music in general. I intended to win him over to my way of thinking.
The phrases I used to bolster my opinion kept coming to me, although I knew not from where. I soon reached the point where I knew that I was no longer speaking to him, but role playing the very same discussion I had had with my father when I was about the same age as my son. Déjà vu. I have become my father’s son. The voice in my head was my father’s and I was not even charging my father rent for the space.
Do you hear the voices? No, not those voices. The ones you hear at work when you realize that the person speaking to you is your other self. The same voice you hear when you go out after work with your friends and begin to talk shop. By the third glass of wine the conversation has shifted from swapping stories about the craziest patient to wondering aloud when the company is ever going to learn how to fix their business. By glass five, you’re fixing it for them, diagramming solutions on cocktail napkins.
A word of encouragement. Listen to the voices. I bet you’ve come up with some great ideas. They won’t do anyone any good locked up in your head. Let them out. Show someone who can do something about it what you wrote on the napkins.