I’ve spilled ink on more fingers and clean sheets of white paper than most people spin from spools an arms length from the stool. Hello, my name is Arroe and I’m addicted to the intertwined thin shreds of a once living tree during an age of texting, emailing and Skyping.
Absolutely it’s because of the multitude of voices constantly heard inside the thickness of my thinker. Think I’m alone…or we’re alone? Prove to me there’s only one of you stuffed into that giant human of a shell. Not gonna believe it.
We hear them speak while driving, folding clothes, shopping at the mall or itty bitty flea market. The voices interrupt our workday begging you to locate a reason to go home early, tell you to drink more wine or beer, ask politely for you to dump more BBQ sauce on your plate of beef or chicken. You hear words when confronted with bills that need to be paid. One look at your parents or family member and quickly you’re driven across a speed bump because of an event that unexpectedly unraveled three decades ago.
You can hit control, alt, delete ten billion times and just like a computer…your mind, body and soul never dump what the FBI and CSI can always find.
Debbie Unterman has released a book that dives into a pool of water a snot canal deep, revealing the identity of the voices so often heard even while trying to sleep. Talking to My Selves: Learning to Love the Voices in Your Head gently explains the ins and outs and whoa so way out there twists and turns that reek havoc until you’re willing to give them a name and face…therefore your identity won’t be part of its theft.
She says, “Decide if any of the voices are likely to be external characters. Allow yourself to divide them up.”
Arroe is a writer, producer, performer, musician, artist, worrywart Cancer, husband, radio addicted geek, dreamer, Wal-Mart shopper, heart attack survivor, animal rescuer, Native American spiritualist, black belt martial artist, works for movie companies and blah, blah, blah. None of these voices have anything but my two eyes and booger filled nose in common.
Through 48 chapters of life…I’ve given each person a voice, identity and place to escape.
Debbie’s next goal is for you to locate the source of where your voices come from. When you hear the inner mingles of thoughts on the loose, is there someone or has someone in your life been the key source of making that voice happen? For an example; my drive to succeed is my mother. My hardcore tell it like it is way to teach future Broadcasters and Tae Kwon Do students is 100% stepfather World War II Vet Joe. The passion to perform on any stage available to hold my frame is owed to The Osmonds, The Brady Bunch and the Partridge Family…I loved music so much as a child, to see them perform on television forced me into a state of mind that I too could do it. When I paint I hear Peter Max still talking to me. Sharp pointed anger? Let’s save that for a different blog. It’s nice and juicy and who wants to mess up this picnic table?
According to Debbie, hearing voices in your head isn’t a bad thing. We hear heroes, words of wisdom from Grandparents, teachers who opened new avenues, a boss that believed in you, neighbors that shared more than their shovels and backyard pool.
Clarity is key…
The daily goal is to protect the core of your system from accidental visitor’s who have stopped in for a mental visit and you can’t shake them free from your living tree. They want one thing...to move in and mess up your life nice and good, better, best.
Marriages shatter because those we love remind of us of the paths crossed years earlier and you guaranteed the many selves you are that it would never happen again. Friendships collide, working conditions worsen, doctors visits become frequent, self doubt sets in, life gets boring, holy cow God…when are you going to ring the dinner bell for me to come back home?
Mountain’s on both sides of the coast and around the world withstand winds of many change and passing storms can be violent or as peaceful as spring and they still have the energy to make the human say, “Wow…”
Why?
A single mountain has many personalities with centuries of chapters written about who, what, where, when and how. Like an old house whose paint has cracked and the stairs weeble and wobble like a old time carnival ride…its history might speak in the way of many languages but for some oddly shaped reason…its character enhances the location of self love, for if it didn’t cherish the ground to which it stands…there wouldn’t be a shadow on the west side of an eastern sunrise.
The reason why I can be in so many places at all hours of the day and night isn’t an ego stretching its self thin…I have a lot of friends all baring the same last name…Me. When you stop to take care of Me first…those connected to “You” become important too.
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
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