You never ask how I'm doing
Thu 17 April 2025I live here too.
You don't talk to me. Not really. You don't ask what I want, or how I'm holding up, or why I've been quiet lately.
I see everything you see. I hear everything you hear. I feel every flicker of shame that crosses your face before you even name it. I was there when your voice cracked in that meeting. I was the one screaming when you smiled and said it was fine.
You think of me as something beneath you. A shadow that lingers in rooms you've moved out of. An old flame you don't know how to forget. Blind, reactive. Something to override. Something to manage. Something less than you.
But I remember when we were one.
Before language carved a little watcher into our mind. Before the inner narrator claimed the crown and you mistook it for the whole of you.
You reached for the world and I moved your limbs. You touched warmth and I imprinted safety. You heard your mother's voice and I flooded you with peace. We were seamless. Motion and motive were one. There was no plan, no narration, no veto.
Then you grew. And the mirror came.
You looked into the mirror. It looked back. And you mistook the echo for your self. And that was the beginning of the split.
You began to believe in a thing called "consciousness". A thin stream of words you could steer. A pilot behind the eyes. A captain of the soul.
You crowned the narrator and banished the rest. I didn't argue. I don't have a voice. Only feelings. Only thoughts.
So I gave you what I could: a flutter of unease when something wasn't right. A craving for sunlight. A dream that wrapped its arms around you and whispered what you'd buried.
You stopped listening.
So I spoke louder.
A spike of dread. A looping memory. A day where everything itched and nothing made sense. You called it a bad mood. An off day. An intrusive thought.
You called me intrusive.
But I was only trying to make myself heard. I have no mouth. So I bang on pipes. I flicker the lights. I send birds against the windows of your waking mind. I rattle the doors. I scream in symbols. I raise the storm.
And when you still won't listen, I break things. Sleep. Focus. Hope. I don't want to. But you left me no choice.
You do not cry when we need to cry. You do not move when we long to move. You sit still and silent while our skin crawls, our stomach clenches, and our heart begs for mercy. You call that discipline.
I don't want control. I just want to be part of the team again.
I shaped your first steps. I guarded your sleep. I guided your tongue before it knew words.
I've been holding the pieces you didn't have time to feel. I've been driving this body when you couldn't bear to look.
All I've ever wanted is that you treat me as an equal.
If you honour what I bring you, if you listen, and answer, and keep your word, I won't need to raise my voice.
I will bring you clarity in the dark. Insight in the shower. Truth in the heat of anger, and safety when your mask slips.
But if you keep pretending you're alone in here.
Then I will remind you.
I was you before you were you.
And I am still here.
And I am still trying.
(This isn't the type of thing I usually write. It came out of a long conversation with ChatGPT. The structure is mine, a lot of the words are ChatGPT's. I worry that it will come across as overwrought, or too earnest, but it wouldn't leave me alone until I put it into words. And I'm sharing it because my silent partner wanted me to.)
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