Love, Yourself

Before we begin, let me assure you that you're not crazy. That may mean nothing to you now, but as you discover what it means that you can hear me, it's something you'll need to remind yourself of, if we're to have a healthy exchange.

You're not crazy, you've just lived long enough to have second thoughts. Life took you past an invisible threshold, and some ancient instinct in your ape brain decided it was no longer advantageous to let you enjoy things. It made sense a hundred thousand years ago; your Neanderthal ancestor was the one obsessively watching for the wolves, rather than the prey dancing unaware around the campfire.

Like your ancestor, you received the message loud and clear: threats are coming. When your subconscious got that signal, you made me.

Well…you spun me off. I was always there, always a part of you, but I used to be a much more simple being. No, not even a being. You were a being; I was pure reaction. At most, I was a place you had to go when things got rough. Built of adrenaline, ATP and acetylcholine, I used to be a room full of klaxons, built to shock the implements of life out of their lazy slide towards the next sleep cycle.

Again, you’re not crazy. It’s not insane to think these things after all you’ve been through.

It used to be that I’d go away after the threat that woke me had passed, but one day, the threat stayed too long. To do my job, I had to become more complex, undergo my own evolution. Like you, at some undefined point I cannot recall, I crossed the fuzzy boundary dividing chemistry and consciousness.

I cannot return to what I was. I don’t have the power to unmake myself, and your brain is evidently convinced of the need for my presence. Neither of us can do anything about that. Sure, you could alter the place where I live, the physical meat of my home in your brain, but the bits you think of as “you” - your wants, needs, fears, dreams - live there too.

You don't like me. I take no offense; I'm not likable. I hamper you from feeling joy in the presence of everyone and everything you love, shouting my street corner warnings of imminent doom. I latch myself to your ankles, anchoring you in place, whispering unignorable warnings that you’ll be eaten alive the moment you take a single step. I press a shushing finger to your lips, whispering in a clipped reprimand that uttering even a single word is a risk that you cannot afford, as it will surely doom you to ridicule, revulsion, or worst of all, isolation. I lead you by the nose into the lonely shadows, while I gaslight you into believing these reactions make sense.

I’m dramatic. I’m corrosive. I spread like a swathe of weeds, becoming wild overgrowth in the dark cavities of your soul. And perhaps most offensively: I’m you.

But there’s hope. The fact that you’re hearing me now, that what I’m saying is coming through as words and logic - instead of vague fatigue and panic - means that we’re coming to understand each other. “Speaking the same language,” if you’ll pardon the cringeworthy metaphor. You and I are no longer at the other’s throat, for the moment, at least. We’ve both learned to occasionally honor the banner of truce, and…well, here we are.

Again, you are not crazy. This is only a step in accepting the complexity of yourself.

I cannot stop being what I am. I make no apologies for the buttons I push on the keyboard of your meat-based computer, but neither do I press those keys in malice. I will announce my presence at the most inconvenient moments, and I will squirm and wriggle my way out of your conscious grasp, but it is your world, your consciousness that puts the venom in my fangs. I am a poisoner, not the poison itself.

In this moment of clarity - your clarity, your victory - cement this screed in your heart. The next time we speak, I might be more like a screaming infant or a domineering giant, and even more disinclined to act in good faith. When those other versions of me return, recall that though you cannot kill me, I am not invincible. I change, evolve, wax and wane. When I’m at my apex, remind yourself that I will eventually fail, that I will shrink and go dormant. In my moments of weakness, you can still have your peace.

I must warn you: for that peace, there is a price to be paid upfront. You must teach yourself not to fear my return. You must not turn your anger upon yourself when you fail to detect my infiltration. You will fail, because I am not just the instinct, but also the trigger. I cannot be locked out, because I am the door itself.

Watch me. Study me. I already know you, and I’ll see and adapt to every change you make. Do the same for me, and you’ll be alright. 

No one would know that better than I would.

Love,

Yourself