Week 2: That One Friend
Voice: Pull it.
Me: No.
Voice: Just pull it. Now.
Me: No. I'm not pulling it. There's no fire, no emergency.
Voice: That you know of.
Me: Sigh.
*****
I know the voice isn't real, that I'm the only one that can hear her. But, she's all I have. She is that one friend. She is the only friend.
I started hearing her at a young age, six. At first, my parents thought it was cute. They thought I had an imaginary friend. "Imaginary friends can be a sign of creativity and intelligence," my pediatrician told them, when a year later I still had the same friend. My parents beamed with pride.
She--the voice--does have a name. Or did. I stopped using her name a few years ago. The original thought being if I didn't say her name, she would go away, leave me alone. And, maybe then, I'd be normal; maybe I'd make friends. That hasn't panned out, though.
Anyway--and please forgive me when I jump around like this, it's not always easy to concentrate--at age six, my parents thought it was cute. At age seven, they were envisioning my graduation from Yale or Princeton. At age ten, they called a priest. And at age 13, they got my diagnosis.
I was given some type of pills. I took them couple times, and then she told me to stop. So, I stopped. My parents didn't know
at first. They watched me put a pill in my mouth, and drink a glass of water. They didn't see the pill tucked under my tongue, or watch it swirl down the toilet, wrapped in tissue.
They did catch on, eventually, though. When I finally pushed away the one friend that they could see. They asked me how the "real" friend was doing. I shrugged my shoulders, mumbling something about not talking to her anymore. I thought that was the end of it, until the next day when it was time for my pills. They watched me put the pill in my mouth, and chase it with a glass of water. Then, like a doctor, my mother told me open my mouth and say "Ahh." The pill, and the truth, came tumbling out.
I was committed in less than a week.
I stayed in the hospital for about two weeks. Did it help? Yes and no. Yes because the staff forced me to take my pills, but no because I stopped taking them about a month after discharge.
Plus, being with other teenagers with similar issues wasn't the best setting to be in. Sure, some of them there took their treatment seriously. But for a couple it seemed like a game to them. "Oh, you only hear one voice? I can't count how many I hear." Or, "You started hearing voices at six? I was an infant, giggling at things my parents couldn't hear." Almost like they were cooler because they heard more voices or have heard theirs longer.
From age 13-17 I had about a dozen stays in that ward. (Some more stays in the adult ward after I turned 18.) Thanks to summer school and a couple tutors I completed high school on time. I graduated without honors, and without friends.
In case you're wondering, I did, and still do have a job, working over night at a gas station. It's usually pretty quiet, so if I do talk to the voice, the likelihood of a customer hearing me is slim.
Also, in answer to another question I get a lot, I do date. I've dated a few men, and one woman, but nothing too serious. It's always the same thing. I'm upfront about my condition, and they say it's fine, they don't care. Then they hear me talking with the voice, and suddenly it's too much. Not what they signed up for. These relationships, if you can call them that, do not last for more than a month.
The conversation I shared in the beginning isn't necessary a normal one between the voice and I. She isn't always telling me to pull fire alarms, and luckily she hasn't told me to kill myself. (Unfortunately, that does happen. I knew a couple people in the hospital who committed suicide for that reason.) Sometimes she encourages me to do things outside my comfort zone, like take a belly dance class or go to one of those paint nights at the local bar. I'll ignore the snippy comments from her about my big belly or big brush strokes.
I know she will always be here. I've pretty much given up the belief that she'll leave, with or without her name. But at least her rude comments don't bite as hard as they used to. And her positive comments? Those I accept. After all, everyone needs that one friend who is always there for them.
Me: No.
Voice: Just pull it. Now.
Me: No. I'm not pulling it. There's no fire, no emergency.
Voice: That you know of.
Me: Sigh.
*****
I know the voice isn't real, that I'm the only one that can hear her. But, she's all I have. She is that one friend. She is the only friend.
I started hearing her at a young age, six. At first, my parents thought it was cute. They thought I had an imaginary friend. "Imaginary friends can be a sign of creativity and intelligence," my pediatrician told them, when a year later I still had the same friend. My parents beamed with pride.
She--the voice--does have a name. Or did. I stopped using her name a few years ago. The original thought being if I didn't say her name, she would go away, leave me alone. And, maybe then, I'd be normal; maybe I'd make friends. That hasn't panned out, though.
Anyway--and please forgive me when I jump around like this, it's not always easy to concentrate--at age six, my parents thought it was cute. At age seven, they were envisioning my graduation from Yale or Princeton. At age ten, they called a priest. And at age 13, they got my diagnosis.
I was given some type of pills. I took them couple times, and then she told me to stop. So, I stopped. My parents didn't know
at first. They watched me put a pill in my mouth, and drink a glass of water. They didn't see the pill tucked under my tongue, or watch it swirl down the toilet, wrapped in tissue.
They did catch on, eventually, though. When I finally pushed away the one friend that they could see. They asked me how the "real" friend was doing. I shrugged my shoulders, mumbling something about not talking to her anymore. I thought that was the end of it, until the next day when it was time for my pills. They watched me put the pill in my mouth, and chase it with a glass of water. Then, like a doctor, my mother told me open my mouth and say "Ahh." The pill, and the truth, came tumbling out.
I was committed in less than a week.
I stayed in the hospital for about two weeks. Did it help? Yes and no. Yes because the staff forced me to take my pills, but no because I stopped taking them about a month after discharge.
Plus, being with other teenagers with similar issues wasn't the best setting to be in. Sure, some of them there took their treatment seriously. But for a couple it seemed like a game to them. "Oh, you only hear one voice? I can't count how many I hear." Or, "You started hearing voices at six? I was an infant, giggling at things my parents couldn't hear." Almost like they were cooler because they heard more voices or have heard theirs longer.
From age 13-17 I had about a dozen stays in that ward. (Some more stays in the adult ward after I turned 18.) Thanks to summer school and a couple tutors I completed high school on time. I graduated without honors, and without friends.
In case you're wondering, I did, and still do have a job, working over night at a gas station. It's usually pretty quiet, so if I do talk to the voice, the likelihood of a customer hearing me is slim.
Also, in answer to another question I get a lot, I do date. I've dated a few men, and one woman, but nothing too serious. It's always the same thing. I'm upfront about my condition, and they say it's fine, they don't care. Then they hear me talking with the voice, and suddenly it's too much. Not what they signed up for. These relationships, if you can call them that, do not last for more than a month.
The conversation I shared in the beginning isn't necessary a normal one between the voice and I. She isn't always telling me to pull fire alarms, and luckily she hasn't told me to kill myself. (Unfortunately, that does happen. I knew a couple people in the hospital who committed suicide for that reason.) Sometimes she encourages me to do things outside my comfort zone, like take a belly dance class or go to one of those paint nights at the local bar. I'll ignore the snippy comments from her about my big belly or big brush strokes.
I know she will always be here. I've pretty much given up the belief that she'll leave, with or without her name. But at least her rude comments don't bite as hard as they used to. And her positive comments? Those I accept. After all, everyone needs that one friend who is always there for them.