There are three names in the title of my blog. They all live in one body, but believe me, they don't act the same -- it's like living in an apartment complex with thin walls and the upper neighbor plays death metal while the lower neighbor sings classical opera, and all I want is better insulation.
You know how I mean. I never seem to have just one thought at a time. I'm like, uh-oh, I did something pretty stupid (or whatever -- insert unhelpful adjective). ED jumps in, like, well, of course you did. You're a worthless fuck-up. What did you expect? Why don't you just hurt yourself until you can't feel anything anymore? You deserve to be miserable and alone. God waits, and as ED pauses to catch a breath before spewing out more criticism, he interjects. You know, sweetheart, I don't love you any less that I did before. I'm not saying what you did was right, and it made me pretty sad, but I'm not throwing you out with the garbage. I'm still here -- I miss you, and I wish you could trust me to help you with your hurts... And I'm full of doubt and questions, terror and hope, and ED's screeching at me, and God is like the bass undertone for a different song playing at the same time. But enough of that metaphor. To carry it any further I'd have to bring in about five separate music festivals.
The weird thing is I know, I know I know, which voices are the ones that I should listen to. I know which ones are truthful ... but the others feel so familiar, so right. It's like when I wake up at night and go into the kitchen, and I know what I'm doing and that it isn't right, that it's gonna hurt later in so many ways, and still I'm opening the cupboards and the refrigerator. Still I'm running to the bathroom instead of running to bed, where my boyfriend is ready to wake up and hold me until the crazy passes. And then I'm done, and I know what I've done but I want to forget it. I want to hide it and pretend it never happened, I want to forget that I failed again. And I can't. I want to confess what I've done, or better yet call for the help I need before I do it. And so often I listen to the despair, the fuck-its, the accusations, whatever. The worst one is the belief -- no, the conviction -- that if I confess my failure or ask for help in my weakness, I will be deserted. They will decide I am not worth loving after all. They will leave, and never come back, and I will be empty, and alone, and too scared to end it all. I am told I am loved, without bound, without conditions, and I want badly to believe it. I want to trust it. I feel so close sometimes to letting it in ... but then the screaming comes back, the fear comes up, the despair covers and I shut the doors. I think I need a bellboy and a doorstop...
