Call me Crazy: Voices

Voices.

I’ve never been a stranger to voices. I hear them everywhere; in the walls, in the trees, in the kitchen, in the wind. It was frightening at first. As a little child, the voices would keep me awake until the wee hours of the night. But as time went on, I got used to hearing them. Pretty soon, I was responding to them.

Odd as it may seem, talking to kitchen utensils and appliances were rather productive. I would sit by the counter and listen to the spoons and forks have a debate about current events; I’d chip in with a well argued point every once in a while. When I got bored, the microwave would procure some entertainment for me and start a rap battle with the refrigerator. I was always the referee and the DJ would be the radio which sat by the window. All was in good fun until the fridge’s temper runs short that he hurls breadsticks and eggs at the microwave from across the kitchen. The microwave’s patience doesn’t last that long so before his calm breaks and he fills the house with radiation, I intervene. That’s when I’d shout at them to stop and break up the fight, only to end up covered in egg whites, standing the middle of a huge mess. The mop, a nice chap, is always a good sport and helps me with the clean up. I don’t fancy the dustpan and broom that much though; they did nothing but hurl insults at each other all day long. It’s enough to drive anyone up the wall.

Most of the time, they’d do all the talking while I listened idly, picking up some words of wisdom from the all knowing butter knife and the opinionated stove. Other times, they’d listen, no matter how long it’d take, to let me get some things off my chest. I would rant for hours and they would whisper words of comfort and understanding. Talking to them calmed me down; especially when I very nearly stabbed my professor with a pen because he wouldn’t let me erase the chalk board, but that’s another story. All in all, they did a lot better than my therapist who most certainly didn’t understand me.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m pretty much aware that that hearing voices and talking to inanimate objects isn’t what you’d call “normal” but hey, in a world filled with men in immaculately white coats and warm sweaters that bind your arms to your sides, the voices are all you’ve got.