There are voices that always ask me questions, and throw remarks. Things like “What’s going on in that head of yours?” And will follow up with rhetorical questions like “Or do I really want to know? Actually it’s fine, don’t tell me.” As though it wouldn’t have a clue what I’m thinking. I’m not certain if it’s a mental illness, or just my conscience. Maybe it’s both. It seems it has a limit as to how far it can infiltrate my psyche. Though I’m uncertain if it’s logical to use words like “infiltrate”, since I’m unsure wether or not it’s always been there, or has gradually made my mind into a home. Again.. Maybe both?

I don’t remember when it started to develop, since the voices were so vague and unnoticeable at certain prime memories of my childhood. Although I do remember a voice would sing to me when I was 5, mentally serenading me with pleasant flatteries whenever I was in physical pain. In those circumstances, it worked wonders in making me feel better, probably stroking my narcissistic child-ego. Though whenever I was in mental pain, I would tell it to stop, since I took a preference to crying my feelings out rather than bottling emotions up. It didn’t seem to understand the first two times, but it finally got the message when I said it out loud, and not in my mind. “Please, stop” is what I said while I whined, specifically about what, I don’t recall.

This voice wasn’t real, and it didn’t sound audible at all (it still isn’t). At such a young age, I knew without even having to think about it, that these voices were all in my head. Even now, as my shoulders stiffen while I’m reading this over, it’s telling me in a comforting voice to “relax”, as though it were my life coach, micromanaging everything I do. That’s a bit of a paradox, -a voice telling you to relax. Isn’t it? Wether it’s audible or not, that’s still a bit unnerving.

I remember, as a small child who could barely speak in full sentences, I never had the voices at that age. Thinking back… Maybe it was because of my oblivious toddler stupidity, mindlessly walking around, touching hot stoves and hot lightbulbs, which burned the skin straight off my soft hands. They really were soft, and I always looked at them, consciously wondering why. I even remember thinking “Wow, they’re bright, and squishy..” Though I thought nothing of it after I was burned by the lightbulb. My skin literally hung off my hand. I continued to do equally stupid things, regardless of life’s attempted lesson.

Maybe life gets mad at us in our youths for not listening. Maybe that’s why it’s such an unjustified d***. Who knows? There’s also something peculiar yet nonsensical that these voices like to say, usually when I’m slightly stressed while executing a task. “I like this part” or “I hate this part” is what they say, as if knowing what’s about to occur, as if they’re watching me from a row of seats, like murmuring to each other during a movie they’ve watched before. But of course, nothing of notable significance ever happens prior to their remarks, so I’m presently making the decision right now, to ignore their stupid remarks in the future. Don’t want to feed a potential fire of what could flare up into possible schizophrenia. I’m at about that age where they begin to develop that illness (23).

I used to think these voices were God, then I thought they were Spirits, then other people’s thoughts, then Angels and demons. I was under the assumption that I possessed a 6th sense. I’ve become far more skeptical however, especially with the annoyance that comes with constant inner chatter, like a radio stuck between two stations. The only time I ever remember hearing an audible voice was when I was thirteen. I was on a medication that magnified any paranoia I had, though it was meant to help me concentrate on school work. That Dr. Morgan was a dumbass for what he prescribed, and I hope he loses his job.

I hid under the table with my back facing the wall, feeling these voices barely surfacing, as though they were breaking through the door of surreality, making their way into the realm of the realistic. One actually called my name with a quickly soft but creepy whisper. “Damian!” as though it were trying to grab my attention. I was alone, so it made the paranoid aspects of it all feel so much worse. I remember another medication after that, prescribed by the same dumbass Doctor. I think it was Chlonodine, along with some other crap I forgot the name of.

The Chlonodine made me feel slow, not there, and would cause an uncomfortable throb to spike beneath my eyes whenever I moved them at the same time as my heart beat. Very strange. The other one turned me into an Autistic wreck, and also partially developed unnoticeable b**** over my chest. Yes, you read that right. I could’ve sued the living s*** out of the company that made it, but I regret never having known that I could do that. I was so scared. I thought I had developed actual breast cancer, but they were just underdeveloped b**** caused by this abhorrent medication!

Nowadays I laugh about the fact that I could’ve been walking around with a pair of tangerines stuck to my chest, but really thinking into it, I’m afraid of what modern medicine will do to anybody else. Of course, I know not all modern medicine is bad though. It’s just the negative possibilities that scare the ever-loving Hell out of me. This is why, even if I do end up developing a mental illness, I’m never taking any of that modern medical crap again. No way Doc, f*** you!! You keep that chaotic, pointless nonsense away from me!

The only ways I’ve ever received an answer from God were not with words or voices, literally thank God for that. He knows I don’t do well with that, so he doesn’t answer with voices. He answers me with reality, telling me through scenarios, events, situations, etc. My Grandma found out she had breast cancer impossibly early before it could develop past a certain stage. She found out through God, and like a badass tag-team, they kicked the f****** s*** out of that gay c***-sucking little lump. Good riddance, may it rot and burn simultaneously in the farthest depths of Hell for all eternity. F*** you, and every other one of your kind, just for existing. By now, you probably have a small hint of how I feel towards cancer. Typing that in relieved some stress.

There was no way she could’ve known about the cancer. That’s what the doctor said. That it was impossible to know at that stage, since it was so incredibly small and inconspicuous. I prayed with my Grandma and Sister together while we were talking about it in the car, and I knew that because she found out about the cancer early, that God was helping her beat it. No voices there.

I remember the voices predicted that my cat would get ran into by a car and killed. That did in fact happen at some point, but I don’t like to believe this was a legitimate prediction. I think the little bastards got very lucky. They’ve always told me to look under my bed for stuff that I’ve lost, or look inside my drawers. They predicted those instances wrong every single time, and more than I could count. They aren’t real, and I’m sticking to that.

Along the way in my life, I also developed a major attraction to canines, equines, cervines, pantherines, and other various types of animals. I don’t have the slightest clue why I’m a Zoophiliac.