I Hear Voices. It’s Chill.
Don’t panic. We’re Fine.
I hear voices,” I say, taking a bite of Gorgonzola.
“Damn, this is good. My Nonno would be impressed. I should tell you about the Parmesan he–”
Chad (Doug? Brent?) from Tinder (or is it Hinge?) cuts me off. “What did you say?”
“This cheese, it’s-”
“No, before that. You hear…?”
“Oh, yeah. Voices. They’re a pretty consistent presence, though rarely violent these days.”
I don’t hear from Chad (Tom?) again. I don’t expect to, nor do I want to. Some people orchestrate elaborate “emergency text” schemes with friends to prematurely conclude bad dates; I just drop the voice bomb. Predictably, its efficacy is unmatched (Bonus: Douche-bro Chad’s visible sweat stains and supreme awkwardness as he scrambles to pay the bill. Disrupting that status quo and a free meal? That’s a yes from me).
If my glibness disturbs you, I invite you to question why. Would it be more comfortable if this were a fraught confession — a wrenching piece of trauma porn that details every medication trial; involuntary commitment; night spent in a haze of dissociative panic as the world rolls backwards and my electric body-mind push me closer (“closer..closer”) to the figurative and literal edge?
What purpose would that serve for you?
Should I tell you that I’m afraid of the voices? Or that a psychiatric diagnosis (which is really a choose my own adventure at this point — some days I’m bipolar with psychotic symptoms, others I’m schizoaffective, on occasion I’ve just made the really poor choice of consuming THC) has “helped” me live a normal (read: functional as defined by capitalism) life?
I could, but that would be some bullshit. The (my) truth is, IDGAF what the psy disciplines call me. They assume I am intrinsically know-able, that my infinitely complex inner world can and should be understood, categorized, and, most egregiously “treated” as though I’m ill. Psychiatry hasn’t protected me. Nor have mental illness labels. What they have done is expose me to discrimination, status loss, and every form of systemic and interpersonal abuse imaginable, justified always by the (deeply offensive) notion that I don’t know myself.
No, this is not that piece. Instead, I will relay this: I am part of the Hearing Voices Network (HVN). We are a global coalition who apply varied epistemological frameworks and meaning-making processes to our “unusual sensory experiences” while advocating for a “rights-based, trauma-informed, and socially grounded” approach to voice-hearing. For some, disease terms resonate. For others, myself included, psychiatric labeling is disempowering and is thus left at the door. Some take neuroleptics, others choose to self-manage with an array of strategies that are varying degrees of socially acceptable, many turn to a combination there-of depending on the day.
Regardless, no one calls the cops.
(For more on this, see Dr. Eleanor Longden’s fabulous TedTalk).
My journey into and out of the psychiatric system is both titillating and banal. It could (and will)¹ fill several volumes of text, but for now I’ll just say this: I am not your object of pity. Nor am I your manic pixie dream girl — a one-dimensional stock character whose cavalier wackiness is a platform for your liberation from the normative existence you both depend on and resent.
You’re on your own with that one.
As for who I “really” am: I’m fucked up, sure, and wholesome and, in addition to being deeply human, am often very tired. Living with voices will do that. Please understand that it’s not the voices themselves that are exhausting (in my world, we have formed an uneasy kinship; a mutual understanding that when they become aggressive, something external needs addressing), rather it is the societal reaction to their presence that leaves me wanting to crawl into bed and binge-watch Netflix for eternity (which, for the record, is the closest I will come to admitting consistent, passive suicidality on a public forum. By Netflix I mean death).
Voice-hearing can be frightening. But it is made more-so by arbiters of a hostile and reductive medical system who pathologize my every belief, thought, and action because according to my records, I cannot be trusted. My story thus aligns with bourgeoning activism and scholarship that places responsibility for dis-ease within the social versus individual body. While the latter is easier to manipulate, control, and regulate, doing so doesn’t address the intersections of power and privilege that oft incite despair. Rather, the process of medicalizing sane reactions to insane circumstances (i.e. poverty, racism, colonialism, sexual trauma, etc.) makes anguish inescapable because it obscures reality (which is flexible regardless of mental state) and blames one for being a victim. It’s institutionally sanctioned gaslighting, nothing more, and I no longer tolerate it.
Voices exist. I exist with them. Their presence has indelibly shaped every facet of my life, and it has taken me years (and a lot of four-point restraints) to learn that they – we – are OK just as we are. No professional has told me that (and none ever will), which is why I no longer seek professional advice. To do so invariably concludes with dizzying self-doubt, and being taught to fear oneself, I have decided, is a most unforgivable act of violence.
When it comes to dating, I have also learned that I don’t need to be grateful when someone is “willing” to “accommodate” my disabilities. I do not accept crumbs from the “normal” table with the hope that I’ll eventually be offered a full meal, because whatever they serve there smells and tastes like shit. This (increasingly convoluted) metaphor also applies in the realms of education and employment, though navigating these is different for a few obvious reasons (the most salient being that for all my anti-establishment shit, I still need money to live).
If you hear voices, I see you. I know how hard you’re working to tame and/or mask them, and I’m here to reassure you that even if they suck, they’re possible to befriend. They may even become vital barometers of wellness, both your own and that of the society around you. I also promise there is a life available that is about a helluva lot more than “managing” your “symptoms” to make those around you comfortable. The ones who implicitly or explicitly insist you do so — the Chad’s of the world, if you will — are undeserving of your brilliance.
Fuck ‘em.
Literally, if you want to, but also figuratively via acts of strategic disclosure that later make great anecdotes.
Notes:
- Yes, this is a shameless plug for my forthcoming book. See The Becoming, Inanna Publications, Spring, 2021.
