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And
here
recommences
my
strangest
and
most
secret
conversation
.
Here
,
in
this
most
private
notebook
,
is
where
I
talk
to
myself
.
I
talk
to
that
same
voice
I
met
that
night
on
my
bathroom
floor
when
I
first
prayed
to
God
in
tears
for
help
,
when
something
(
or
somebody
)
had
said
,
"
Go
back
to
bed
,
Liz
.
"
In
the
years
since
then
,
I
’
ve
found
that
voice
again
in
times
of
code
-
orange
distress
,
and
have
learned
that
the
best
way
for
me
to
reach
it
is
written
conversation
.
I
’
ve
been
surprised
to
find
that
I
can
almost
always
access
that
voice
,
too
,
no
matter
how
black
my
anguish
may
be
.
Even
during
the
worst
of
suffering
,
that
calm
,
compassionate
,
affectionate
and
infinitely
wise
voice
(
who
is
maybe
me
,
or
maybe
not
exactly
me
)
is
always
available
for
a
conversation
on
paper
at
any
time
of
day
or
night
.
I
’
ve
decided
to
let
myself
off
the
hook
from
worrying
that
conversing
with
myself
on
paper
means
I
’
m
a
schizo
.
Maybe
the
voice
I
am
reaching
for
is
God
,
or
maybe
it
’
s
my
Guru
speaking
through
me
,
or
maybe
it
’
s
the
angel
who
was
assigned
to
my
case
,
or
maybe
it
’
s
my
Highest
Self
,
or
maybe
it
is
indeed
just
a
construct
of
my
subconscious
,
invented
in
order
to
protect
me
from
my
own
torment
.
Saint
Teresa
called
such
divine
internal
voices
"
locutions
"
-
words
from
the
supernatural
that
enter
the
mind
spontaneously
,
translated
into
your
own
language
and
offering
you
heavenly
consolation
.
I
do
know
what
Freud
would
have
said
about
such
spiritual
consolations
,
of
course
-
that
they
are
irrational
and
"
deserve
no
trust
.
Experience
teaches
us
that
the
world
is
no
nursery
.
"
I
agree
-
the
world
isn
’
t
a
nursery
.
But
the
very
fact
that
this
world
is
so
challenging
is
exactly
why
you
sometimes
must
reach
out
of
its
jurisdiction
for
help
,
appealing
to
a
higher
authority
in
order
to
find
your
comfort
.
At
the
beginning
of
my
spiritual
experiment
,
I
didn
’
t
always
have
such
faith
in
this
internal
voice
of
wisdom
.
I
remember
once
reaching
for
my
private
notebook
in
a
bitter
fury
of
rage
and
sorrow
,
and
scrawling
a
message
to
my
inner
voice
-
to
my
divine
interior
comfort
-
that
took
up
an
entire
page
of
capital
letters
:
"
I
DO
NOT
FUCKING
BELIEVE
IN
YOU
!
!
!
!
!
!
!
!
"
After
a
moment
,
still
breathing
heavily
,
I
felt
a
clear
pinpoint
of
light
ignite
within
me
,
and
then
I
found
myself
writing
this
amused
and
ever
-
calm
reply
:
Who
are
you
talking
to
,
then
?
I
haven
’
t
doubted
its
existence
again
since
.
So
tonight
I
reach
for
that
voice
again
.
This
is
the
first
time
I
’
ve
done
this
since
I
came
to
Italy
.
What
I
write
in
my
journal
tonight
is
that
I
am
weak
and
full
of
fear
.
I
explain
that
Depression
and
Loneliness
have
shown
up
,
and
I
’
m
scared
they
will
never
leave
.
I
say
that
I
don
’
t
want
to
take
the
drugs
anymore
,
but
I
’
m
frightened
I
will
have
to
.
I
’
m
terrified
that
I
will
never
really
pull
my
life
together
.
In
response
,
somewhere
from
within
me
,
rises
a
now
-
familiar
presence
,
offering
me
all
the
certainties
I
have
always
wished
another
person
would
say
to
me
when
I
was
troubled
.
This
is
what
I
find
myself
writing
to
myself
on
the
page
:
