Some people assume I have always talked to myself.
My wife likes to tell the story of walking into the kitchen one morning early in our marriage and asking:
What are you doing?
Nothing, really.
You were waving your arms.
Oh. I was lecturing.
To who?
Hmm. The toaster, I think.
I remember exactly when I started talking to myself.
I was 12 and sitting all alone at a window seat on a crowded bus.
Earlier that spring, at school, as the result of some extreme creativity not encumbered by the least bit of common sense, I had broken my left arm. The accident splintered the humerus into several fragments and badly damaged the radial nerve serving the top side of my arm. As a result, I lost most of the feeling and muscle control of my left arm beneath the elbow and the top of my left hand. While the ER doctor was trying to set the bone without any pain killers, but with the jagged bone grinding down upon the nerve, I learned the meaning of pain; the next 6 months of physical therapy would teach me even more about pain, but also the meaning of perseverance. The experience remains the third or fourth most painful experience of my life. Because extreme pain pulls you into yourself, it is inherently isolating and lonely; for me, perseverance is also nested in loneliness.
Unlike my previous hospitalizations, which had been for my epilepsy, the broken arm was something tangible, physical and manageable, so there were things I could do; I could own and work at a broken arm. It also helped that I could earn tips smuggling beer, wine, cigars and cigarettes into the injury ward, and that the men I was with looked out for me.
My parents also helped me with this, both by being very supportive and by encouraging me to take ownership of my own healing (also by not dwelling on how serious this was and the possibility I might never regain use of that arm). After I had come home from the hospital, my dad sat me down and explained that my brother could not be left alone in the afternoons, and that I would have to learn to take the bus, by myself, clear across town twice a week for physical therapy.
Several weeks later, I remember being on the bus on the way home, and feeling terribly lonesome for somebody to share the bus ride with me. I was proud of my independence, and knew I could manage, but the long solitude of the rides and the waiting rooms wore on me. I am not sure that I am exactly an extrovert, but most people who know me will point out that I certainly am talkative, and not having anyone to talk to is difficult for me.
Out of my desperate need for someone to talk to, I suddenly realized that I could have a conversation with myself. It might strike some people as odd that I had never considered this before, but I was the youngest of a talkative family and shared a room with my brother, and so getting solitude had always been more of a concern than getting company.
The dialogue that started then and continued for decades tended to be
between two sides of myself—the more emotional, dreamy part of me and the more rational, logical, controlled part. This is a pretty natural division within me, and also was good for this situation, since the emotional part of me was scared and lonely and the rational side of me was reassuring. As the years went by, it was also handy, since the rational side of me tended to be my conscience and also more cautious and sensible. It is a conversation, an internal dialogue, that has continued now for more than 3 decades.
Yes, there is almost always a dialogue going on in my head, and always at least one song playing. Most of the time, there is also some drama; there is at least one—often several—really strong emotions wrestling it out beneath the visible surface—anger, passion, desire, despair, joy, grief, and a lot of affection. There is usually, some food, too. It is like having a rather bizarre (and poorly lit) Café every hour that I am awake.
So, because I have a really bad case of writers block, I decided to start blogging, and to see if externalizing the dialogue would get me going. When Brandon suggested that the blog be “Robert’s Philosophy Bistro,” the idea was perfect. It still is, and, believe it or not, this is the 20th Entrée.
Thank you for dropping by, feel free to leave a question, can I get you a menu?
I don’t talk to myself because I just don’t want to hear any more conversation. After working all day, and talking all day I don’t want to hear anything when I get home. It makes it hard to keep up with friends because I don’t want to talk. I call my mom every evening and talk to her for around 20 minutes or so and that seems to be about all I can handle. I guess that’s why I email or Facebook message a lot, I don’t have to actually talk.
I always describe the inside of my head as being like the Internet it constantly links from one thing to another. A title of a song running in my head leads me to think about an event in history, which makes me think of a movie, which makes me think of an actor, which makes me think of a book, which….. Well, you get the idea, it usually some way always leads to a horse or some other animal. It is also the reason I don’t sleep at all unless I knock myself out enough with herbal medicine till I can’t think so I can sleep.
Its nice to know somebody remembers when there were hospital wards and the kids and adult wards weren’t divided. I hated those, I wouldn’t push the button for the nurse when I was getting sicker because I wanted to go home and knew they wouldn’t let me go so the women in the ward would always call the nurse and tell on me and they would bring shots and my going home would be delayed, ( my 5 year old brain thought they were being mean and getting me in trouble) I even remember when there weren’t room in the wards and they had to set people’s beds up out in the hallways. People talk about the good ole days but sometimes they weren’t that great at all.
Since this was a “work related injury,” I got to go to the “Work Related Injury Hospital” or Arbeitsumfallklinik. Having the 12 guys in my ward was how I survived, especially when I was really hopped up on morphine coming out of surguery.
They also fed me a lot of chocolate.
I was eating alone in a restaurant once and overhead a kid ask her granddad why he talked to himself. He said he always talked to the smartest person in the room. If that was him, so be it.
I dont talk to myself outloud that I know of, but the dialogue in my head is nonstop. Rachel, I too, have songs going on constantly in addition to the constant dialogue. But the songs overlap the conversation.
In my head, I plan the things I want to do, organize those plans, make art, make lists, analyze previous conversations and plan new ones with people I will be seeing. Even plan the writing I want to do. While I am doing those things, I use my phone internet, and watch T.V. which is what I am doing right now. If I dont have serveral things going on, my mind tends to go to dark places which is very unpleasant. So I avoid down time with nothing to think of or do.
Great story Brandon ! Grampa was missing a great conversation with his Grandson, but that’s what old habits do to us sometimes.
Robert, I loved hearing about thefirst time you started talking to yourself. I think the human mind is just so fascinating !
The songs and thoughts going on in my head and the incessantly loud ringing in my ears often make it difficult to engage the others in the room. If I’m tired, it’s even worse. I must say, however, the thoughts and stories of others are much more interesting and amusing than the stuff going on in my head!
Oh my gosh, the loud ringing! I have that too, along with phone ringing noises, radio noises, like its off the station, voices, dog whining noises, and motors. Yeah sometimes it’s hard to hear people over all that.