This is The End, Not-So Beautiful Friend

Stupid Little Voice Who Lives in My Head, time's up. NPR told me this morning that new studies indicate drugs that treat schizophrenia are not very effective so despite a $10 billion drug industry, there ain't one with your name on it, Stupid Little Voice Who Lives in My Head.
Besides, you're not schizophrenic and neither am I.
I know.
It would be a great excuse but it's just not an option. You either have it or you don't and I'm not going to do anything like slip myself an LSD mickey in the hopes of giving you your dream of not being responsible for anything due to the fact that you are insane.
Sadly, you're not.
But you are making me a little crazy, and not in a good Seal, "No, you're never gonna survive
you are little crazy" way.
You're making me crazy in a "Goddammit you succubus, get the fuck off me because you are making me ITCH and taking up all the time that I could be using to meet boys with whom I can make out" way, ya dig?

What I really have to say to you is that it's seriously time to consider leaving me alone. You have messed with me for too long and... I let you.
Because I felt sorry for you, I guess. You're weaker and more scared of things than I am.
Remember when I went sky-diving and LOVED IT? You were nowhere to be found, were you?
Remember when I packed up my car and moved out West without credit cards, without a support system, and as I came to find out the day after I arrived, without a JOB? You were Gone Goose. You seem to never be around when I am doing something exciting and rich with possibility. You don't call, you don't write, and you never help me make decisions when things are going well for me - when I am healthy and active and engaged.

I used to be really, super-fat, remember? And I lost more weight than I can currently bench-press? Where were you then? Huh? Nowhere near me, that's where.
Here's one: After graduation from undergrad and I was back in Springfield and had entered into a little bout with Gloomy Gustavo, my Depression Canary. I secretly lived on $100 per month. You were all up on my tip then, weren't you? You wanted to be my best friend and I had to listen to your screechy rhetoric day after eternal day.
You know when else you were loud and bitchy? That night when I turned 25 and Steve skipped the tiny little gathering of people that came to my house after my class (grad school, thankyouverymuch) but he DID take the time to call and tell me that I was getting fat. Man, I remember you that night. I got super-wasted and cried myself to sleep with you... maybe you really are a good friend to me.
You're always there when things are painful and shitty and hey - we all need a shoulder to cry on, right? Especially when our boyfriends skip our birthdays and call us fat in front of our friends. And yes, over the phone counts as "in front of other people."
Because I said it counts, that's why.
You know, here's a great one because it's really fresh, not even a year old: That time when I blew .09 after having three drinks and my life changed in literally a breath? You were totally there for me when I got a hold of my real, live human friend and responded to his utterly human concern, "Hey man, don't worry about me. I am f-i-n-e, fine over here! I couldn't be better, considering I am GOING TO GO TO JAIL." You were there that night, good buddy, yes you were.
And you were louder than me.
I wasn't fine.
I did need someone to hug me and to tell me that it was totally going to be okay and that it wasn't as bad as it seemed. I needed that and YOU wouldn't let me have it. Which isn't very nice.

So I hope that I am establishing a pattern here that you can see clearly. In case you can't see it - and I'm thinking that you just are not as bright as I thought you were when I got called fat at age 6 and when I got date-raped in college - I'll point it out for you and make you feel like the turd for once.

The evidence is mounting and proving that you're not exactly trust-worthy. I can't really believe you because I think you lie to me. I think you tell me that things which are not so good for me are GREAT! And then you are Mrs. Disappearing when things are going well. You don't have a counter-part who is all beaming and congratulatory. There's no other side to you that is all, "Oh hug-hug, beautiful girl, hug hug!"

You're always mean and you're always there when I am going through something that is already awful.
That's stupid.
Why don't you regulate when I am about to screw up, instead of yelling at me after I do screw up… hell, after anything icky happens? Wouldn't that be more… I dunno… friend-like, Stupid Little Voice Who Lives in My Head? Anyway, as you'll see, it's too late for all of that now.

Here's the deal. I am working on a project that is heavy on new legislation and heavy on contractual obligations. We are going to draw up a simple agreement here and we are going to abide by it for the REST OF MY NATURAL LIFE (I give you permission to treat me like shit if I'm in a coma or on life support because you are admittedly loud and skanky and often, I respond to those kinds of stimuli, I mean, I am from Southern Illinois after all.)
"Hereto forth, Stupid Little Voice Who Lives in My Head is barred from participation in any inner-monologue (and admittedly sometimes dialogue) during times of duress. This is a non-limiting agreement and there are no exceptions, no exclusions. The duration is for the rest of my natural life. Stupid Little Voice Who Lives in My Head shall be held in violation of this contract should Stupid Little Voice Who Lives in My Head choose to be present during any crisis in my life from this point forward. Violating the terms of this contract will result in the termination of your existence and the installation of a completely new coping mechanism, most likely at the hands of a mental health technician who believes strongly in aggressive therapy."

Sign here.
And here.
One more…
Oh wait!
Here, too
I guess that's it. Not too bad, huh?

I shouldn't see you again until such time as I am in a coma or something else that might preclude my natural death.

… you know, for a minute there, when I was really young, you actually helped me out a lot. I'm not sure how but I know you must have started out in life meaning well. I don't know when, or how, but you got confused about what's appropriate use of your volume. Unfortunately, things got beyond either of our control, you know? As much as I relied on you, I can't keep you around. You just can't be trusted to be there when I really need you.

So, thanks for the memories, Stupid Little Voice Who Lives in My Head. You meant a lot to me and I know you tried your best to take care of me…. No hard feelings,. Okay? Chin up.
Me too, you know?
But I think we'll all be better off this way.

arizonasarah at 12:41 p.m.

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