Psychiatrist

“I really think you need to see a specialist, a psychiatrist” he had said, “I know just the man.  You’ll like him. And he’s very good.”

She hadn’t wanted to see a stranger, to talk over her fears and the voice in her head that criticised and nagged at her throughout the day and in the dark hours of the night. Not that she heard voices or anything like that. No alien invader inhabited her mind to feed her strange instructions about papering over the windows or wearing foil hats to keep the radio waves out. She recognised the voice all too well. It was hers; and it really should speak to her more kindly than it did because she didn’t deserve some of the things it said even though her life resembled a ball of wool that a kitten had played with and she had difficulty thinking of a single achievement she could be proud of from the last few years.  But somehow she could not silence it. Her. The other her. The voice had been there for as long as she could remember, with its sarcastic commentary on her life and its little hints about how much better she could be doing for herself if only she had a better job, concentrated more, spent less, lost weight, and all the hundreds of other great improvements she could make. 

23/5/2011