Diary Of A Twenty Something: The Voice

It’s been a rough few months at sea, if you were to continue the theme from the previous post. The chemical imbalance that certain mental health issues bring have caused me to be caught up in a tornado of self-doubt, and much like Dorothy, I now find myself a million miles away from Kansas.

It’s like any rebuilding process, following a natural disaster. How do you rebuild? The ideas you had conformed to in your head have all now been shattered, and form the debris and rubble surrounding you. The life you thought you were going to have, you now know you are not going to have. The next steps you make, are again like baby steps, as you again learn to walk. It feels very much like being plucked from the Matrix, and with a pat on the back told to be on your way.

Everybody is looking in through huge glass panes, like you’re in the first ever human held in captive at the zoo, wondering what the hell is going on with you. You trust nobody, you tell nobody, and you depend on nobody.

But this, despite your worst fears, is paradise. A small, quiet, isolated voice at the back of your head, is to reassure you of this. It cuts out the noise of the other more boisterous voices of despair. It reminds you of the fact that you are a human being. An animal, and you have limited time. It reminds you that you are now naked, and have been discharged from a life lived trying to adhere to society’s guidelines. It makes you once again familiar with the tastes and interests of old. It reignites the fire of your character that makes you, you.

It’s reasonable, it’s peaceful, it’s kind, it’s gentle.

But it’s also firm, and aggressive, and drags you up violently by your collar. It screams at you to do that one more set at the gym. It hounds you to do the small things that are going to make a difference to your life. It berates you to simply blank the people intent on tying you down, to regard them as insignificant.

I’m not religious but its closest comparison would be that of a guardian angel. It lives a peaceful existence in the back of your subconscious. It causes no controversy. It guides you silently from behind the curtain. It forms a close bond with its distant relative, gut.

It’s like Mickey to Rocky.

“Get up you son of a bitch, cause Mickey loves ya.”

It does all that, whilst your sat on the bed. Peering out of the window, wondering what to do next.

It gets you off the bed.

 

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