“I think I’m going to write a blog about talking to myself,” I muttered to myself as I sat in a public location. “That’s a great idea,” I replied, “It will distract you from the lack of human contact in your daily routine!”
accepted discovered that I talk to myself a lot. Even more disconcerting, I have extended small talk sessions with inanimate objects. I don’t know how long this has been going on. I’ve been living by myself since February, and I love it, but I think the solitude may have had some adverse effects. I decided to get a roommate for the extra bedroom in my apartment, and it wasn’t until she was moving in that my little habit alluringly pulled up the edge of its floor length skirt to reveal an sexy-less, unshaved ankle. I was in my room on one side of the apartment, and my roommate (who I will call Lady Marguerite of Spain to protect her real identity- just kidding her name is Katey) was in the kitchen on the other side of the apartment. I walked merrily into the kitchen to see if she needed help unpacking, and she inquired innocently,
<<What were you saying to me?>>
<<Ha,” I scoffed, <<what are you talking about?>>
(This girl is crazy, I thought. She hears voices. Weird.)
<<You were talking.>>
<<No I wasn’t.>>
<<I’m pretty sure someone was talking.>>
I wasn’t too worried at that point. I didn’t really remember talking to myself, but I was sure it must have been humming or something. Little did I know I had just seen the tip of the iceberg, and that my quirky, hermit habit had reached Titanic size.
It wasn’t until the next morning when I caught myself talking to my underwear and socks as I sorted them that I realized it was probably a good thing my time living alone was over. At least that’s how I explained the end of our conversational relationship to my underwear and socks.
Possible reasons for this tendency for self-conversing: My mom has always talked out loud to herself when thinking very deeply about a problem or situation. She even talks in her sleep. All night. It’s pretty weird. And of course, I’ve always talked to my horses and books. My pony, Stanley, is very insecure about his height and needs to be reminded of his good looks twice daily. Good thing manly rhymes with Stanley, eh? My horse, Bo, is more confident in who he is, but who doesn’t like hearing that they are the handsomest noble steed this side of the Atlantic? So there are two legitimate gateway non-human dialogues.
But I think the biggest culprit in this unfortunately non-isolated symptom of early onset crazy is Pixar (and I’m not trying to argue that Brave was so terrible that I ripped my hair out and checked myself into an asylum, although that could have happened) . See, I am a proud member of the Toy Story generation, so after 1995, my conscience led me speak to all my stuffed animals daily, rotate the ones I played and slept with, and make sure they were comfortable in the toy bin. (See THIS post for more Disney themed nonsense.) Naturally, once I reached
adulthood my current age the concept of treating my toys like friends was so deeply engrained that I extended it to my best friends books. Ezra Pound doesn’t really need my approval, Emily Dickinson just gives me the stink eye when I ask how her day was, and Poe…..honestly I prefer not to talk to him once the sun sets. But P.G. Wodehouse, Billy Collins, and Stevie Smith get bored without someone to laugh at their razor sharp wit.
So I guess the question is… did Toy Story get up all in my head, did I read too many books as a child instead of making friends, or am I just one hop, skip, and a jump away from crazy simply because crazy is in my genes? Or how about this question: should I be worried about talking to myself or should I be grateful for the company. I mean, common. Statistically we all talk to ourselves more than any other person, which means I just have a better relationship with myself then the average extrovert. As far as talking to my material possessions, well I guess you could say I don’t take them for granted. William Morris said, “Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.” Well hey, if my things are keeping me company then they are all useful. If talking to my accidental collection of carved elephants from around the world means I can spend an evening at home alone doing creative things and thus justifying any eccentricity I may display, then can you really fault me for talking to them?
But just to clear the air: I’m not crazy. I’ve passed hop, but skip and jump are still plenty of distance between yours truly and the metal abyss.