Clearing the Demons

I have a little voice in my head. This is, more or less, what it sounds like:

little? ha.
She is rip-chair. Discipline- no. Lazy on a stick spoiled brat almost doer. never finish. Never can finish. Not clean. Not up to date. Always not quite. Not quite enough energy to run. Not quiet good enough to get the answer not quite kind enough... Rip start. Rip top.
lazy rip unwilling to hurt. Not doing so hard. Rip. Rip.

Most people I know, and every writer I’ve talked to about writing, has at least one little voice. Usually, it’s not a very nice voice. Mine, for example, tells me I am stupid and nobody wants to hear what I have to write. When I am tired, his persistent, hammering voice drowns out every other thought. I give in. He wins. I don’t put the words down. At the end of those days, I feel that awful let-down feeling - like taking off a bathing suit at the end of a beautiful day at the lake without ever having touched the water. And also, I feel afraid that I’ll never make my way to the water again.

But then, two weeks ago, my friend Betsy* asked to talk to the little voice in my head... And... she did. First, she asked me what he looked like. (A very small pirate with his arms crossed in front of his chest quite literally standing on my shoulder). She asked him what noble purpose he had come to serve, because, she said, ”I know you came for a good reason...“ And he said that he came to protect me from harsh criticism by taking me down first.

No one could hurt me by telling me that I was stupid and had nothing interesting to add - if I had already told myself. And, specifically, if I knew in advance that my writing was nothing special, I couldn't be hurt by being told that. AND if I never tested my writing - that would be best, because then I could continue to hold on to the fantasy that I was gifted at SOMETHING. He wanted to protect me from finding out the hard way that I don't actually have much to offer.

"Have you ever read her writing?" Betsy asked.

The pirate snorted.

"Have you?"

(I am leaving out who the pirate was protecting me from, because it doesn’t matter any more. Even the pirate agreed that I no longer needed a shield from that person). In fact, we agreed that I didn’t need the pirate to do his job (the pre-emptive take-down) anymore at all.

With Betsy’s help, I thanked him. Sobbing, I confessed that I was grateful to him. I would have been terribly lonely without him. With that out of the way, Betsy asked him kindly, lovingly, to go away.

”Not a chance.“ he replied. ”I’m not going anywhere.“

Isn’t that just like the voice in my head?

Betsy asked if maybe he could do a different kind of job - say, help me to feel joyful.

The pirate scoffed. Honestly.

I offered him another job. One with a bit of edge to it, and humor. He took it. And he stepped away.

The next day, I sent an article to a magazine, made three phone calls I’d been afraid to make for a month, and resumed work on my book. The pirate has not returned.

At first, the lightness was peculiar, but it has yet to feel unpleasant. When I write, sometimes, I think, ”That’s actually got a little bit of ring to it.“

After the initial jokes about being tri-polar (there was another voice in there, too), I've pretty well stopped mocking myself for exorcising my demons. After all, without the badgering voice of doom on my shoulder I'm much more efficient. I am saving time. Storing it up, almost.







*Let me know if you want to talk to Betsy. She's done amazing work with a lot of people.