Addicted To Asides: Why I’m Like Deadpool
If the walls had eyes, and people could see what I’m like when (I think) no one is looking, they’d be surprised. As I go about my daily business, whether it’s answering emails, writing copy, or loading up the washing machine, or driving, I’m never alone. No, I don’t see dead people. There are no fairies and elves who dwell beneath my furniture. I don’t invite door-to-door solicitors in just to keep me company. I am, however, engaged in a perpetual conversation, even when no one else is there. I talk to myself- a lot. Most of the time, it’s out loud (I must look a sight as I walk the dog, or when I’m in the car at a stoplight), but I don’t even have to move my lips or make a sound in order for this to happen. I’m engaged in a constant dialogue, ping ponging ideas back and forth, weighing options, trying to anticipate how people will react when the conversation goes outside of my head.
Now that I think about it, it’s kind of like that opening sequence in “Deadpool”, you know, where he’s sitting on the bridge, Salt-N-Pepa blasting, doodling cute but sarcastic scenes, absolutely no fourth wall…yeah, that’s me. I just don’t wear a rubber suit or unleash fiery wrath upon my enemies, not most days, anyway.
According to my mother, I’ve always been this way. When I was too little to have an inner monologue, I chatted with any inanimate object I could find. Spoons and forks, small pebbles, cardboard tubes- they all became part of the discussion. As I got older, I would mentally rewrite endings to my favourite stories or television shows when I got nervous or couldn’t sleep, narrating on behalf of the characters. In the midst of my turbulent teenage years, I rehearsed in advance how I would react to my peers, anticipating how they might react to me, how I hoped they would react to me. Apparently one never outgrows this sort of thing, and apparently it’s hereditary. Now that I’m a parent, I overhear tiny diatribes from the playroom, and then after bedtime, I continue with my own.
It’s not for comfort or company, but rather because I can’t mentally process much unless I put it past the invisible Greek chorus that follows me around 24-7. If I’m awake (and maybe when I’m asleep), I’m in a heated discussion with hypothetical “others”, some of whom agree with me, and some of whom play devil’s advocate. It’s like I have a built-in fanfic generator for real life, one that allows me to run through a series of what-ifs at any given moment.
They say that when you’re a hammer, everything is a nail, and it could be that when you’re a storyteller, everything is a “once upon a time.” Maybe real life and real people are just complex and perplexing enough that I need a trial run in order to deal with them effectively, to get the words out the way I really want them to come out. Perhaps I’m just what some refer to as a verbal learner, one with an overactive imagination. I never did have an imaginary friend as a kid. Evidently, I didn’t need one. I had myself, and unlike an imaginary friend, there was no need to get rid of myself as I grew older.
And yes, in case you were wondering, I’m going to chat with myself about this post at least two or three times before I hit publish.
