Along with all my other charming (and not-so-charming) eccentricities, I have always gotten great comfort and pleasure from talking to myself.
Sometimes I don’t even know I’m doing it. I’ll be driving one of my sons somewhere in the car, having a long conversation with someone else in my mind, not talking out loud, but making facial expressions and moving my lips and son will say “what the heck are you thinking?”. If I’m alone in the car, it’s absolutely out loud. Only Roy, my faithful elbow penguin, listens.
I find it helps me sort out difficult conversations, to try to imagine responses to awkward questions and to respond in kind. Sometimes it’s retrospective, and I’m saying all the things I wish I had said in a conversation I’ve already had.
When I was little, as I’ve mentioned before, I was the radio. I remember the first car we got with a radio, a Pontiac Acadian, and I was somebitch pissed about it. “WE don’t need a RADIO. I’M the radio!!!”
At a former workplace, I had quite a bit of conflict with a supervisor. I couldn’t really understand what the issue was, as I tried to speak respectfully to her. A co-worker (you know who you are, SS) told me it was because I didn’t have to tell her I thought she was daft, because it was written all over my face. Much as I tried to modify my speech and behaviour, you can’t hide your facial expressions. Or at least I can’t.
So, I talk to myself, often aloud, sometimes not. I talk to the cat constantly, poor thing. I talk to friends and family members, some alive, some not. If I’m really on a roll, I can make myself laugh. I have a tendency to call myself names, though. Note: Be nicer to self.
I can never anticipate all the responses in my imaginary conversations, but often I can suss out most of them, and I find it a useful tool.
So – slightly crazy broad who talks to herself, or Conversational Ninja? You decide.