The Vexatious Voice

There is a vexatious voice that natters, natters, natters at me all day long. It sounds, sometimes, like the woman (not my mother) who raised me, is woven into most of my childhood memories. Her voice is sharp, her tone aggrieved or angered or irritated or judging or anything but the loving voice I craved, the acceptance I strove for, always reaching, reaching, for some untouchable goal of her desiring, always falling short.

Sometimes, though, it is her cadence, her speech patterns, but my own voice I hear, nattering, nattering, nattering away at me all day long. Nothing I do is done well enough, nothing I do is right. I am too fat, too stupid, too ugly and undesirable, and no matter how hard I try or what anyone else may think, I will never, ever, be good enough. I married my husband in part because the voice told me no one else would ever want me, and I am with him still in part because she tells me I'm all used up and no one else will want me now.

It's toxic, the vexatious voice, nattering, nattering, nattering away at me all day long. It wears me down. Sometimes I want to scream, just scream, something primal from the gut, from the bottoms of my feet, let the rage rise up and obliterate the voice, or at least drown it out for a short time, a small respite.

Nattering, nattering, nattering, all day long...