The Voice in My Head
by Bryn Studer
Northern Kentucky University
Bryn Studer is a Musical Theatre Major at Northern Kentucky University and will graduate in 2024.
Scene 1, Act 1
(The curtain parts to reveal WOMAN sitting sideways in a blue armchair with a laptop resting on the left arm. WOMAN, deep in thought with her hands hesitantly floating above the keyboard. The flame of an idea flickers in her eyes as she lifts her head to look at the illuminated screen in front of her. She takes in one last breath before lowering her fingers onto the keys as if they were a dusty photograph or a yellowed, handwritten, love letter she had found at the bottom of a trunk in the attic.)
Woman: (exhaling) Okay . . .
(Her fingers move for a few seconds before a voice rings out. She stops abruptly.)
Voice: That’s stupid, delete it.
(This voice is similar to her own. In fact, it is her own, yet distant sounding and distorted slightly to where it almost seems forien and unrecognizable. WOMAN sighs and pressees the delete key several times in a row. Almost rhythmic. The song of doubt. She leans back, away from the computer, and rubs her forehead to ease an emerging headache. For a few moments she stays like this, coiled up in the chair, before finally dropping her hand to her lap and lifting her head once more.)
Voice: Well? (silence) Think of something.
Woman: Uhmm . . .
Voice: Oh my God.
(Even though this voice is disembodied, an eyeroll can be heard in its inflection.)
Woman: (Aggravated) Stop it, alright!
(WOMAN forms her hands into fists as they sink to her lap. She bounces one fist up and down in her frustration. To try to calm herself, she breathes in, filling her belly with forgiving air. As she exhales, her shoulders lower and she presses the heels of her hands into her thigh and slowly pushes them up and down her thigh. The song of control. After a few cycles of this, she relaxes her hands and lets them rest on her knees. She sits there in the suffocating silence, staring at the screen. The cursor blinks back at her as if it is waiting patiently for its next command.)
Voice: (In time with the cursor) Blink . . . blink . . . blink . . . blink . . . blink . . .
Woman: (in a low, growling tone) Shut up. (She closes her eyes and tangles her fingers into her hair.) Okay, think think think . . .
(But not a sentence, nor word, nor any thought at all bubbles up from the thick, murky pool contained within her cold, cave-like skull. Empty. Her mind is empty except for that pestering voice. She becomes more tense.)
(Cue track 1: “Quickening Heartbeat”)
Voice: I have to get this done. I can’t—
Woman: (Softly at first) I know, I know—
Voice: My grades are already so god—
Woman: (louder) I get it!
Voice: Okay, work then!
Woman: (even louder) I can’t think of anything. Shit, I can’t even get a word I—
Voice: Stop procrastinating.
Woman: (even louder) I’m not!
Voice: You already have!
Woman: (Voice breaking) I’m trying to fix it, please!
Voice: (finally recognizing) Shit, I’m nervous.
Woman: Yes--
Voice: Stop stop stop, God!
(WOMAN begins to fidget, methodically rubs her thumbs along the inside of her hand, right where the fingers become the palm. Each hand moves in unison. VOICE and WOMAN start to breathe heavily.)
Voice: Slow down, slow down, slow down.
Woman: I can’t—
Voice: Jesus—
Woman: Okay hold on—
Voice: Gah!
Woman: It’s okay!
Voice: God, you’re gonna be sick.
Woman: (falling down the hole as well) Wait, I—
Voice: (increasing in volume as one big, deafening crescendo) Stop stop stop stop stop stop—
Woman: (Catching herself) Whoaaaaaahhh. (She stretches her hands out)
(Cue track 2: “Slowing Heartbeat”)
Woman: Okay calm down . . . calm down. (She presses her hands to her face, covering her eyes. The world starts to spin) Okay . . . stop that in its tracks.
(Her breath slows and she relaxes a bit. Dragging her hand down her face and behind her neck, she vocalizes a long sigh. She stares off into nothingness for a while. The static fades from her hands and feet. The sweat on her skin dries. Tears slowly drip from her eyes like falling stars in a night sky. Everything is still. Everything is quiet. Finally.)
Woman: (After a while) Why do I have to fight like this? (She is void of emotion as if the faucet has run dry) Why do I have to fight my brain to...just function? I don’t understand. It’s not...fair.
Voice: Life is not fair . . .
Woman: I know.
Voice: . . . and everything happens for a reason.
Woman: . . . I guess.
Voice: And there are people out there who are literally starving.
Woman: I know that but (Beat) Could-- could you just please let me be upset? (The faucet starts to drip again) I don't have to rationalize everything. (drip) I am allowed to have emotions (drip) and experience them (drip) without shutting them down (drip) or-- (drip drip drip) or listing reasons why I should not be feeling this way! (A steady stream falls from the faucet)
Voice: (silence) . . . yes.
Woman: Shit— (tears start to fall once more) If I’m like this on medication . . . (beat) How do some people naturally have happiness? I know people are sad sometimes and everyone experiences ups and downs but...I feel like I always have to fight you to feel happy. Or even just break even. I’m tired of this. God, I’m so tired. (Her head falls into her hands)
(Something in her shatters and the shards shoot in every direction, but she has no more blood left to give, for you can not bleed when your blood turns to lead and drags you to the floor. You can not feel when your emotions are bound with ivy that wiggles its way into their throats and through their ears, only to be thrown into the locked, cement cellar. You can not think when your mind is coated with pitch and your thoughts get stuck to every surface, left to rot right there where they lie. You can not breathe when your chest is wrapped in canvas that is covered in cracking paint from a familiar sky and torn from its golden frame, ripped into bands, and knotted together. You can not see when you are blinded from the jagged edges of a metal memory scratched out with a key to your new dorm room.)
Voice: Maybe…(trailing off into silence)
Woman: (sword and shield drawn, ready for another attack) What? Tell me.
Voice: . . . Maybe we can’t handle this right now.
Woman: (Relieved) I know.
Voice: (For once with genuine concern and love woven into its tone) We really need to figure this out.
Woman: Please.
Voice: (tentatively, almost as if convincing itself) It . . . it will be okay.
Woman: (with absolute sureness) I know.
(Blackout. Close curtains.)
Interview With The Author
1. What was your inspiration for this piece?
I was inspired to write this piece after my first attempt to write this paper for a creative writing class. While writing, I had to physically stop because I became too overwhelmed with how my brain was talking to me and became very anxious. I have several anxiety disorders, so this is an often occurrence. I have noticed, however, that these occurrences seem to follow the same script every time. That is why I chose to write this essay in this format. Also, being a musical theatre major, I am familiar with scripts and their format. Therefore, this piece also encapsulates my personality.
Editors’ Comments
Elegantly simplistic sums up this creative nonfiction piece. There’s something about being able to put these thoughts, that everyone has, into words that made me feel like I was in the moment in the best way possible. This piece is powerful, meaningful, and entertaining.