The Voice

What is my story?

Is it the story of my childhood, chaotic and dysfunctional? Maybe it’s the story of the day I came home from elementary school when I was 11 and saw the fire trucks on my street, in front of my gutted house. Or is it about being molested that same year by a relative giving us refuge after the fire?

Maybe recent is more relevant? A miscarriage after a surprise pregnancy? Or the death of the  beloved canine companion that helped me through the pain of loss?

All of these things led me here. All of these things helped create that Voice in my head that says, “you’re a failure,” “you’re not worthy,” “you don’t deserve anything good,” “you are NOT ENOUGH.” They laid down the path to the guilt of having the good things I DO have in my life. They helped to take away my ability to feel joy.

The Voice humiliates me.

I want to write a new story. But writing a new story is hard when all I feel is the bleakness that keeps me here, at home, on the couch, isolated. I want to reach out, but I’m scared. If I pick up the phone, the Voice screams, “No one wants to talk to you!” Maybe send an email? “They won’t reply, they don’t care.” Write a Facebook post or a Tweet: “You idiot! You look so stupid! No one wants to read that!”

The Voice humiliates me. The Voice haunts me. Right now the Voice is writing my story.

Until today?