I wish I was dead.

Not now. But then.

AI image from Lexica.art

Not now, but then.

I wish I was dead.

“It’s ‘I wish I were dead,’” says a voice in my head.

“Hey! Let’s look it up,” says another voice. “Was or were. The internet has to have an answer.”¹

“Shut the fuck up and let him write,” says yet another voice.

I thought they were my thoughts. But they weren’t exactly mine, and they weren’t precisely thoughts. I decided to call them voices.

I started again.

“I wish I was dead” was something I remember saying when I was a kid.

 “Wrong!” I hear a chorus of voices. They explain why that’s wrong. Why I am wrong.

“Technically, you were never a kid,” says one. “Some Past You was the kid,” explains another. “I was the one who said that,” says yet another. “You didn’t remember saying that,” says still another. “I remembered it and put the memory in your mind.” On and on.

 It’s hard writing with all these voices,  thoughts, or whatever-they-are filling my head.

“It may be hard,” says a kind voice. “But writing about it is the point.”

The point seemed to be that I had read “Set this house in order” by Matt--somebody--Ruff, yeah, that’s it. Matt Ruff. Then I remembered that someone I thought was me had once said, “I wish I was dead.” And it got its wish. That someone was dead and still living in my body.

“Set this house in order” is a story about multiple personality disorder. Well, not about that. It’s about two people who have. No, that’s not it. Let me see…

And there it is again. all these voices or viewpoints or parts or sub-personalities or whatever the fuck you want to call them or whatever the fuck they want to call themselves interrupting me and each other like they’re doing right now.

I stopped writing. I imagined myself addressing all the whatever-they-are that have been drawn to the light that-- what? The light that comes with writing? That is the essence of writing? That is creativity? Voices interrupting each other yet again.

“Settle down,” I tell them. Or I tell myself. Or I tell my selves.

” Shut the fuck up,” another part says. And finally, there’s silence. But only for a moment.

“There’s a truth to be told here, and like all true things, it can’t be put into words…” says a voice.

“Because truth is beyond words…” says a voice.

“Shh! Let the man—or whatever he is—complete a thought!” says a voice.

I stopped writing down every damned thing that comes to mind. I waited for the right words, knowing there were no right words. I searched for better words, knowing there were different words, not better ones. 

There it was again. Writing everything that came to mind.

I stopped writing, sat back, and looked out the window. (“No, I know. It’s not a window. It’s a sliding glass door. Please let me finish. Please.)

 I looked out the window and let the thoughts come. I sat and acknowledged each thought and the source of each thought.

“Thank you. You’ll get your turn,” I said silently to each

 I waited.

 I was willing to wait.

I will stop editing this.

I will wait for tomorrow. 

Sorry if you don’t want to wait, but you did because today is yesterday’s tomorrow, and you didn’t even know you were waiting.

And now you have to wait for the part I write today. Next. Today.

1. Grammarly had the answer when I edited it. It’s “I wish I were dead.” All dead-wishers take notice.