So why post an overview of my experience hearing voices? Narcissism? Sadism? If it is either of the two, I'm in denial.

I put this up on the www because it would have been nice to know that what I experienced for 14 years wasn't real — when I was experiencing it. So, gentle reader, if you Googled some word that relates to this in search of help, maybe you can learn something from my story and this site.

Here's the Cliff Notes: the voices you hear aren't real.

Up for the full-length "overview" version? Great. Here we go...


Bitch. Slut. Whore.
It all started when some former "friends" in junior high labeled me a bitchslutwhore (often said in one fell swoop, as noted in the run-into-each-other words above). Today, people like this are called "mean girls." I kinda prefer the term buttheads. It's unisex — fits both boys and girls — and the word is also synonymous with "asshole." Anyway...

After the top butthead declared me a bitchslutwhore, I knew what my fate would be for the rest of the 7th grade. I'd seen what the butts had done to another girl (that poor girl!) the year before. Not wanting to suffer the same fate, I devised a plan to kill myself. Kinda...

I didn't really want to do it. I just wanted to hurt myself bad enough for a hospital admission. I imagined that after the school announced my critical condition, a light would magically illuminate the buttheads' shit-encrusted brains. They would realize their misguided ways! They would run — not walk — run to the hospital and lay prostrate before my bed, crying and begging my forgiveness.

They would realize, "My God! How could we have been so unfair? How could we have dedicated our young lives to petty gossip, bullying and other various evil plots? We were wrong! We are sorry! So, soooo sorry!" They would pledge to change their behavior. They would forego character assassination forever and ever, amen.

Alas, my mom caught me in the act and I didn't get to play victim — drat!

At school, health intact, the daily routine was mostly in-your-face insults ("bitchslutwhore"), behind-my-back-but-really-really-loud insults ("bitch!slut!whore!") and other kinds of verbal abuse.

Come Field Day, it was hilarious when the butts stalked, cornered and soaked me head-to-sad-little-toe with water Uzis. Way to hunt, girls!

The worst event I don't have any recollection of. Apparently, I was encircled by a bunch of kids hurling insults and posturing as if they were going to pummel me. I was rescued by a passerby who asked me years later if I remembered the scene. I did not.

Because I'm wired the way I am, the buttheads' smear campaign did not leave me stronger. I didn't stand up for myself during the whole affair, so why start after it? That was not me (foreshadowing!). But serious kudos to those who are.

Instead, my brain decided that it might be easier to deal with the crushing blow to my I-don't-stand-up-for-myself-esteem by giving me a much larger problem to wrangle with.


Sell Your Soul
I was raised in a religious family. So imagine my surprise when one summer night, between 7th and 8th grades, I heard little whispers in my brain. Not happy voices. They were dark. And evil. And quite persistent. They said, "Sell your soul." Over and over and over and over again.

Clue number one that they weren't "real" was that there was no request for a trade. They could have said, "Sell your soul for all the warm puppies in the world," and THAT would have made sense. But I suppose I was too freaked out to think rationally.

These voices bothered me for months at a time. And I'd stay up until two or three in the morning praying for God to command a vast army of pissed-off guardian angels to save me from them. I was an innocent little lamb, was I not? That"s what they said in Sunday School.

After years of the nightly visits, the phenomenon worsened. I started hearing them during the day. When I drove my car, they yelled at me to swerve and hit motorcyclists, pedestrians, smaller cars.

Plane rides became unbearable because this was when they started to propose a trade. And not for warm puppies.

Right after take-off, I'd hear "Sell your soul or everyone on this plane dies." I didn't want anyone to die, but I also didn't want to go to hell. I was worth something, too, wasn't I? But then I'd think, "All these people." Of course, the plane would hit turbulence and I'd almost pee in my pants. But inevitably, I wouldn't give in. So every time I said no, the voices asked again. And it went on like that for every second of the flight. It was a total drag.

Alas, that was just the warm-up. Soon, I began to feel a "presence" behind me. If asked under oath, I would swear I could feel their breath on the back of my neck. They seemed to be rather infatuated with the little hairs at my neckline — I could feel them staring at them for hours on end. These pesky boogers were also too quick and too clever to be caught red-handed, no matter how fast I turned around. And I tried. A lot.

The final straw occurred fourteen years after that first sickening summer salutation. I happened to be spending the weekend in a cabin by a bayou when the freaking lights went out. It was night and it was sooooo freaking dark, I couldn't see my freaking hand an inch in front of my freaking face. I freaked. Sure, the lights did pop back on after a few minutes, but still, the evening quickly melted into a terror fest of aliens (where the hell did those come from?), voices screaming the usual fare — Sell your soul! Sell your soul! — and a visit from those damnable, unseen stalkers creeping out of the murky water to find their favorite place at the base of my neck. This time, I could have sworn I caught a glimpse of one of their claws.

Obviously, I needed to bolt. I frantically packed my bag and very slowly walked to the car (so as not to draw more attention to myself, duh!). As I got in, I scraped my back against the door frame to prevent those neck-loving creatures from getting in with me. And even though I told myself not to look in the rearview, I did. There was nothing but blackness. Whew!


Yeah, I Told People...
I wanted to claw the voices out. I was simply losing the battle, and I was frequently completely and utterly terrified. My thoughts were seldom on other things than slipping up and saying, "Okay, I'll sell my soul if you just leave me the fuck alone." I had a few months' break from time to time, but they always came back. It became pretty clear I needed to tell someone.

Confessing my affliction took every ounce of chutzpah I had. Obviously — at least to me — I gravitated toward the religious to unload my burden. The first guy I confessed to was a church counselor who, when told, got this... this glint in his eye. I suddenly understood how a lab rat must feel and got the hell out of his office, never to return.

The next guy was a newly converted Muslim. He said to consider it a compliment that my soul was being fought over with such earnest. Thaaaaaanks!

I told a boyfriend, who just looked at me lovingly in the eyes and said, very tenderly, very softly, "arf." Bless his heart, he was a real dog-person and he really did think that would work.

A few years later, I was onto another boyfriend. He said it sounded like schizophrenia. I was so offended that I dropped the subject.

After the horror show by the bayou, I drove straight back into town and unloaded my burden on a friend. Because she was a believer in the supernatural, she took it at face value like the other spiritually inclined folks. Thankfully, she told a mutual friend about our conversation. And thankfully, this friend was not the crystals and incense type.

She lured me to a pizza dinner, and over our first mug of beer, asked me straight up, "What the hell is going on?" After the third brew, I had told my story. She suggested that it probably wasn't real and to call my mother to talk.

I did call my mom, and told her everything. She said, "Have you ever thought they might not be real?" And just like that (snap your fingers here), they were no more. I did have what you might call ghost pains for about a year. I guess the voices were with me so long, my brain just didn't know what to do with the space they occupied.


Doctors Call "Them" Auditory Hallucinations
We're not talking about schizophrenia here. Twenty percent of severely depressed people hear voices. Mine were triggered by post-traumatic stress (the Butts episode in junior high) and the unresolved depression that followed.


What Do I Need Meds For?
I saw quite a few psychiatrists and therapists in my day to "fix" the unsettled issues that had caused my depression and the subsequent voices. I was pretty adamant about not taking meds. I just needed to "power through" and "set my mind to it." I was soon convinced otherwise though. I was at Eckerd Drugs, looking at some tape and just cried. I was so exhausted.

Do yourself a favor: don't cry over tape. If your doctor thinks you need some meds, perhaps you could try them just to get over the initial hump. Do some research, get educated on the specific brand and keep going to therapy.

And if you take Prozac, your doc should tell you about Prozac withdrawal. Mine didn't. Which leads me to this: if you don't like your doc or therapist, find another one. I know some people who have been through 12. My personal best? Seven!


A Good Therapist Is Hard To Find
Finally! Finally I found her! Ah... sweet mercy!

My therapist, Jeanne, helped me fight the way I used to do things, the ways I felt, and my tried-and-true reactions to situations that helped keep me "operational" for so long.

After a year, I started feeling more like... well, what I imagined the "real" me was supposed to feel like. I knew I was saving myself. Throwing myself a rope. Scraping off the scum collected from the thousands of showers of my old self. But for some reason, there were repercussions to going down the right road. It was bizarre. Often, I felt perfectly heinous after doing the things that I knew were positive steps to the "new me," instead of the crap I used to pull.

Jeanne said it was because it was a lot like stretching a rubber band. The rubber band is taut, fights being stretched — but the next time you stretch it, it gives just the tiniest bit more. But it's still fighting.

After the second year, I was good. Six months later, I got my walking papers.

The moral of the story? Save yourself. It will be a long and arduous road, but so worth it.