You shouldn’t have said it. You opened your mouth again without thinking. You are the most thoughtless, needy person. It’s a wonder you have any friends at all. Some of them pretend to like you.
You shouldn’t have gone. You ruined everything. Why can’t you get your act together? You shouldn’t have written it. How dare you? You shouldn’t have smiled, missed that red light, eaten cereal before bed, let your sister watch a scary movie when she was little.
You are the worst teacher, and don’t deserve to be a teacher. You’re argumentative, insensitive, selfish, unhelpful, worthless, biting, opinionated, controlling, stupid, ridiculous, awful. It’s a wonder the students can survive at all with you. And you can apologize and promise to do better, but you will fail. You always do.
You are fat and ugly. Fat people are lazy, and will die sooner, so that’s good. You have no self-restraint. You are awkward and ungraceful. Your fat butt knocks over everything. You should stay home so no one has to look at you.
You feel awful. You always feel awful. You always will feel awful. Your emotions are so broken it’s pathetic. Why can’t you be happy once in a while? Is happy broken? You’re just self-pitying. And for what? Nothing really bad is happening. You should see what people who are really suffering go through.
You’re so mean to your parents. They just tried to raise you the best they could, give you everything they could think of, and it was never enough. You were just spoiled and unhappy. You didn’t deserve them as parents. No wonder they abandoned you – you’re awful.
You hit your brother with the swing when you were five. You cried at your birthday parties. You were hated by everyone in school. You doubted God. You burned down your house. You married a guy for money. You have whined to counselors for years and never made one bit of progress. You can’t do your job half-right. Your whole life has been a mess.
You. They speak to me in second person. They speak in a low tones. Therapist says it’s “stinkin’ thinkin’.” But no. It’s not thinking. It’s voices.
I hear my name called audibly when no one is there. It’s psychosis. It goes on and on for months and years until every bad thing I’ve ever done has been examined over and over, every character flaw uncovered, every motive questioned.
My own response doesn’t seem so crazy under these circumstances:
Get the shotgun. Move the car into the garage. Wait until I’m alone. Put down plastic so I don’t make a mess. Then do it. Then I will be free of voices, finally free.