This has been going on for a long time and I sometimes think that I’m the only sane person to have ever had conversations like these. I don’t actually talk out loud, the conversations take place in my head. I even have conversations about my conversations……………Weird, right? I never feel confused or get lost in these dialogues. I question myself over and over again. I worry that I’m a little off center, I give myself pep talks, I put myself down, I pat myself on the back and sometimes I cry and feel sorry for myself. Now, let’s get a few things straight; I do not hear voices, I am not crazy. I have conversations but never out loud. Sometimes it helps relieve stress and sometimes it helps me figure things out
The first such conversation I remember having was in the fourth grade. A new school, Catholic, studying English vocabulary; the word of the day was “darn” meaning to mend a hole or a tear using a needle and thread or yarn.
After giving this basic definition I decided to show off my superior intelligence and added, “It is also used as a mild expletive to express anger or frustration in place of the word d-a-m-n.” Bad move, even though I did spell damn.
Sister Mary Joseph, a nun, was the teacher and her face turned a shade of red I had never seen before. She took a big breath and said, “We do not use the word darn in that way young man. Come up to the front of the classroom this instant.” I was surprised and very apprehensive. I had always been praised by my father whenever I took the initiative and had something to add to a conversation or any kind of task or chore. I slowly walked to the front of the classroom and my first conversation began, it went something like this:
“How stupid am I? Nuns and priests don’t use words like that! I’m in big trouble! I wonder what she’s going to do? She looks really mad. Maybe you can explain and she’ll take it easy on you. Uh-oh she has a ruler in her hand!”
She did have a ruler in her hand, one of those heavy rulers used by tailors. I watched myself take my time walking up there. I was having what I learned was an out of body experience. I saw and heard everything so clearly, my classmates whispering behind me, the sister’s habit rustling as she smoothed her sleeves, my feet shuffling on the creaking wood floor of the classroom.
“Turn around and face my desk.” I did. “Now, pull down your pants”.
I hesitated and looked over my shoulder at her. “Pull them down now”, somehow managing to hiss those four words. I complied, all the while observing the whole scene in a detached state. Sister Mary Joseph lifted the ruler and whacked me across the buttocks. The pain and shock of the blow jolted me back into the reality of a truly humiliating experience.
“Why would you let her do that to you? Pull up your pants, go get your brother and go home”.
“Are you sure I can do that?”
“Of course I’m sure. Move before she whacks you again”.
I pulled up my pants and turned to the Sister who had raised the ruler to whack me again and I said, aloud, “Don’t you dare”. She didn’t.
” Good job! Now go get your brother and get out of here. You don’t need these creeps!”
“Right, but what’s my mother going to say when I tell her I walked out of school?”
“Don’t worry about that, just tell her the truth.”
“What do I tell my brother?”
“Oh yeah, I forgot about him. He’ll listen to you, you’re his big brother. Knock on the classroom door, go in and tell him to come with you”.
“Okay, here I go”.
I got my brother, we walked home. I told my mother the whole story and she filed a formal complaint with the school.
I remember that first conversation with myself very clearly even though it took place many, many years ago.
So ended my parochial school education.