THE VOICE INSIDE MY HEAD

Not now, Marshall.

‘My God I hate myself.’ I don’t really mean it, but Marshall does. ‘Give up, Shithead.’ He’s nothing if not persistent. But me not wanting to hear it doesn’t keep Marshall from repeating it. His voice sounds just like mine. I will give him that. He has basically perfected it over the years. A little raspy with some twang, and a tiny lisp on words that start with an S-T sound. The voice inside my head is not my friend. The voice inside my head is Marshall… and Marshall is a prick. Luckily I’ve finally realized that Marshall is a part of me. We are inextricably linked for the rest of my days. Or maybe the rest of our days? Who knows.

Marshall is the accumulation of every fucking bully, every critique, every doubt in my life. A Frankenstein of insecurities and criticisms that at one point in time could be crippling. But like most monsters, Marshall is merely misunderstood.

Marshall might have my voice but he doesn’t look like me. He looks like a former middle school classmate of mine aptly named Marshall. He was the real-life monster that once after football practice pointed at me and shouted “look at Zack’s nipples through his shirt. He’s got chick tits.” Bastard. That’s all it took to send me on a path of having to check every single shirt I try on to see if my nipples are showing. “Does this pass the nipple check? Nope. Put it back, Zack. Try the sweater section.” Kids are vile creatures.

I am not afraid to admit that sometimes Marshall is beneficial. For instance, a few years ago I was working out with a teammate of mine in the off season and it was leg day. A monster leg day in fact and like most people I dreaded those days. As my friend, let’s call him JB, approached his max weight in squats he was pumping himself up out loud. Things like “you the fucking man,” “you got this dog,” and “can’t nobody fuck with you.” I didn’t think much of it. He knelt under the bar and knock out a new personal record. Impressed but not surprised. Then it was my turn. After taking off a considerable amount of weight from the bar I took my stance. Locked eye-to-eye with myself in the mirror, I pumped myself up just as JB had. Only Marshall had some input. “You fucking Bitch,” “you ain’t nothing,” “you’re weak and don’t stand a chance.” I proceeded to knock out my own personal record. After racking the weight I turned to see the horror on the face of JB. “What?” I asked. “That’s how you to talk to yourself??? That’s fucked up.” Correct. It is fucked up. Marshall is fucked up but maybe since I have lived with him for so long I need him there to motivate me. To doubt me. To give me someone to prove wrong when I don’t have that someone in front of me. I’ve tried the other way. “Come on, Big Guy. You got this!” No. No I don’t. Positive affirmations, although I desire, are not nearly as helpful and feeling counted out or incompetent. So I don’t wanna give the impression that Marshall is all bad. Just very very bad.

To be fair during “nipple-gate,” I am sure the real Marshall was just distracting everyone from whatever insecurity that was overtaking him that week. Acne. Maybe his voice was changing. Rough home environment. Who knows. But I forgive him mostly, but that doesn’t keep me from using his face as personification of the vicious voice inside my head. I am convinced if I saw him in public today and confronted him he would have zero memory of the interaction and he’d probably apologize. He should probably apologize to the hundreds (maybe thousands) of t-shirts that never got worn because of his offhanded remark. Every now and then he will come up with a new one that grabs my attention. “Time is fleeting, you will be dead soon.” “You’re too old for skinny jeans.” “You are NOT the demo for Taylor Swift.” It’s a bit of a different approach but I still know he’s just trying to get a rise out of me.

For years I felt shame for having Marshall by my side. His voice would anger and frustrate me. My goal was to silence him. To put a black bag over his head, tie a few cinder blocks around his feet and dump him 3 miles out in the Gulf of Mexico. But he was a sneaky fuck and I could never quite catch him. He was always just out of reach. Taunting me and trying his best for me to give in and join him into his pit of fear and despair.

It took longer that I would have liked but finally I gave up. He doesn’t deserve to die and as hard as I tried I couldn’t kill him anyway. But he’s there. I know he will always be there so there’s no use fighting it anymore. These days Marshall gets to have his say. I listen, I acknowledge him, I politely tell him to “piss off” and then I go on with my day. Some days are harder than others but ultimately he’s just an insecure 13 year old kid looking for attention. He’s the OG analog version of an internet troll. He walked so twitter bots could run. Instead of feeling bombarded, these days it’s more of a conversation. “Not now, Marshall. I’m trying on t-shirts.”

Love y’all.