Sewer Harpies

There are about five voices in my head, but if you ask me, they’re not in my head at all.  They’re as real as you or me, they flank me on all sides, and they are LOUD.  And believe it or not, they are all women.  I call them the sewer harpies, sometimes the peanut gallery, but usually just the Harpies.  One speaks in a low hiss, one is ghetto fabulous, one as sweet as Cool Whip, one is loud and angry, and the last sounds like me at 15.

I try not to name them, though sometimes I am dying to, to give them a life and validate how real they are.  They want names, but they are not nice about asking.  The Harpies are not nice about anything.  I don’t get inspirational messages, or warnings that the aliens are coming, but words that are more believable than either of those options.

The Harpies tell me that I’m worthless, that I should end it all, that someone will die if I don’t eat my bagel in exactly 45 bites.  It’s a lot of pressure when I listen, and it’s hard not to.

I manage to survive the Harpies, work around them; tell them to mind their own business.  Headphones help, telling them to go away doesn’t.  Ignoring them is a wise idea, talking back to them, unfortunately, is not.

Lately the meds haven’t been helping, and I live with raging Harpies every day.  My compulsions are few, despite the encouragement, but my confidence is low.

-E