My First Voices

The first voices I remember hearing (or at least the ones I can definitely say were voices, the line can sometimes be a bit blurry when reality and psychosis meet) were male. In fact all of my (main) voices have been male. I’m in no way a man-hater, and I’ve met many women who have been a negative influence on my life too, but for some reason the voices are men. I guess a therapist would put it down to the fact that I have been abused by men, but I’m not as sure it’s down to that. I’ll leave that to the .. erm .. ‘experts’.

I can recall my first major ‘voice hearing experience’. I was in some friend’s shared house in Sheffield, sleeping on the floor in one of their rooms. As I lay there I could hear some male voices talking about me. I can’t really remember what was said, but I know that it was pretty uncomplimentary. At first I couldn’t make out the words, but they began to get louder and clearer as I listened. It was dark and I was afraid to move in case they heard me and realised I was listening – I’m not sure why, I think I just felt very confused.

Soon enough the confusion was peppered with indignancy – how dare they pretend to be my friends! I decided to confront them – to stick up for myself, or at least act as if I was (not that I was really suffering a crisis of confidence or anything). I sat myself up and got my bearings, James was still asleep on his bed. He was breathing heavily and I was as sure of his presence as I was the voices in my head. Ok, it wasn’t him – so who? As silently as I could, not wanting to wake him, I left his room and moved through the house. Checking each room in turn, I found the two other occupants asleep in their own rooms.

A sense of weirdness grew within me and I began to panic. The voices were still evident in my head and I needed to find the cause. I opened cupboard doors, checked store rooms, the bathroom and even outside – all to no avail. Feeling quite frantic and very frightened, I just went back upstairs to James’ room and sat back on the floor. I brought my knees right up to my chest and hugged them tight. That night I cried, quiet as I could, and prayed to a god that I didn’t believe existed for the morning and a bit of sunlight. Things are always better in the morning … aren’t they?

Rachel Waddingham © 2003