She wants to write. Desperately. I can feel her reaching for the pencil, with all of her tremendous strength, all that power that was saved in a tiny frame. Not now, I think at her, I have this report to finish up and then … but arguing with her is worse than useless. I could picture her pouty lips set in a stubborn line, and silent, she exerts pressure on the left hand, trying to distract me from what I am writing so she can take over.
I have never seen her so desperate to communicate, because she never lets me talk when I really need to. When those times come when the dam should break and feeling come through, there she is. She only protects me, in that she refuses to let me make a bigger target for anger by shooting my mouth off. She only stops me from talking to stop me from making a fool of myself – ourselves – in front of others. I can take the words, but not the frustration of not acting. Sometimes I wonder if I have outgrown her, and if she is no longer needed.
But I cannot discard her. She is a part of me unlike anythign else – except the others.
Imagine the strength that she has that she can control all of us, screaming for blood, the pound of flesh, peace and what not, and stuff us all into a dusty little corner of our collective mind. To keep the body out of all our control. To prevent action, when all the rest want it. To keep us quiet when we are either sobbing from fright, fear and pain or screeching blue murder.
I think of Terry Pratchett – Angie and Perdita, the two minds in one body, and Perdita “growing stronger in the left hand” and almost groan.
She is, perhaps, the most powerful of the lot of voices in my head. Silent, and lurking in the background. Quiet I call her, and I have seen her come out only when I need to be protected. Yet, what is it that she wants to say? Curiosity gets the better of me.
No, I overrate myself.
She would have broken through my resolve anyway.
Imagine my surprise when I saw my hand now scribbling freely, and my being completely independent of it, just watching. It is a sight to behold, the relatively small crisp handwriting with the points on all the letters abruptly changing form. They become large and artistic, clear words and ideas, and things I had not heard before, or that I had heard and ignored. My eyes grow wider at the message that comes through, and the core appears to be amidst a lot of other words. They hold my eyes and my mind, and I wonder – how could I not have known?
I am Me.