Steven Ivory: When This Person Talks, I Listen

*He described what happened in the meeting, and I couldn’t help but laugh. I started with a snicker, then a genuine guffaw, before bursting into a full belly laugh.

And the more I laughed, the harder I laughed. To be honest, the story he told wasn’t as funny as the idea of who told it to me, which made me laugh even more.

That’s because I was the one who told myself the story.

Yep, when I’m alone, I talk to myself.

When I say I talk to myself, I’m not talking about silent meditation; I speak out loud. I express my thoughts, say what’s on my mind, and listen to reason.

Don’t act like you don’t talk to yourself every now and then.

When you’re fussing around your closet for something, in the kitchen preparing a meal, or slowly rolling through a parking lot for a space, if you’re alone (or even with someone, depending on how well you know them), you’re quietly saying to yourself things like, “Let’s see now”… “Okay, that’s that, now what do I need next”… “Ahh, there it is, I knew I’d find it here,” and of course, “Let’s see, now…”

These aren’t full conversations I’m having with myself. I’m just speaking random thoughts, voicing personal “eureka” moments. Sometimes, I simply need to hear how something sounds coming out of my mouth.

Remarkably, talking to myself has helped me communicate better with others. For one thing, I’ve become a better listener.  I don’t interrupt myself mid-sentence.  Seriously, by listening to how I say things, I’ve learned to use my words wisely and express my thoughts and opinions more clearly. Unlike people who hear voices in their heads, the only voice in my head is my own.

I’ve talked to myself most of my life. As friends went, if I wasn’t with Donnie Minnis—my next-door neighbor from birth and the kid I grew up with—I was alone.

I hated the peer pressure at school and was a career class-cutter who started ditching early, around fourth or fifth grade. Imagine being allergic to formal education and living right across the street from Oklahoma City’s Carter G. Woodson Elementary.

Too timid to be one of those kids who’d skip school and boldly hang out at the local T.G.& Y. or some other public spot and risk being seen, I’d take refuge in the “Batcave,” the attic of the standalone garage at Donnie’s family’s house, which we claimed as our clubhouse.

On days I didn’t go to school, the Batcave could easily have been called The Fortress of Solitude, Superman’s hideout, because I’d sit in that empty, dusty attic alone from nine AM to three PM — no transistor radio, no comic books, or anything else. Just me, with only my thoughts. Unless you’re a monk, all those hours in stark silence are a long time for anyone, child or adult, to spend alone with nothing at all to occupy them.

So, I’d talk to myself.

Even then, I didn’t fill the silence with nonstop talking—just a sentence or two now and then, spoken from a flood of thoughts inside my head.

Being alone can promote a sense of introspection that lasts with you throughout your life. You realize that there are actually two of you: the persona you present to others and the inner self. I love people, but I have come to enjoy my own company.

Many people fear their inner selves. For me, that’s the person I turn to. He’s the one who walks with me each day, the one with whom I find adventure in the seemingly ordinary. He’s the guy who makes me laugh, re-evaluate my foolishness, and always tells me the truth, whether or not I ask for it. And sometimes, he speaks outside of me, using my voice.

Of course, the inherent problem with getting used to talking to yourself is forgetting you’re in public and doing it around others. I’ve never done that myself, but I’ve seen others do it.

Recently, in a supermarket aisle, a woman was reading the back of a protein drink label and quietly debating its ingredients with herself.

When she noticed that a few of us shoppers had overheard her, she sheepishly apologized and, with a giggle, said, “I’m not crazy, I swear I’m not.”

I tell myself that all the time.

Steven Ivory, a veteran journalist, essayist, and author, writes and discusses popular culture across various platforms, including the Internet, TV, radio, documentaries, magazines, and newspapers. The Last Man on AOL is at [email protected]