I’m Not Alone in My Own Head

People say the mind is a safe place.

A private space where thoughts wander freely, where secrets stay buried, where no one else can hear the things you don’t say out loud. For most of my life, I believed that too.

Until I noticed my thoughts were no longer private.

Until something inside my head began answering back.

It started small.

A misplaced word. A sentence that didn’t sound like me.

I’d think, I should go to sleep early tonight, and another thought would slip in immediately after.

You won’t.

Same tone. Same voice. But not the same intention.

At first, I brushed it off as stress. Everyone has intrusive thoughts, right? The brain misfires. Repeats itself. Argues internally.

But this wasn’t an argument.

It was a correction.

The second sign was the silence.

I realized it during a quiet afternoon at work. No music. No typing. No voices. Just me and my thoughts.

Or so I believed.

I paused mid-thought, distracted by a strange feeling—like holding my breath without realizing it. My mind went completely blank. No inner monologue. No background noise.

Then something moved in that empty space.

You stopped talking, the thought said.

I froze.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t emotional. It was calm. Observant. Patient.

“I didn’t say that out loud,” I whispered.

You didn’t have to.

My heart pounded as I tried to reason with myself. Hallucination. Fatigue. Anxiety. There were explanations.

There always are—until there aren’t.

That night, I tried to test it.

I lay in bed with the lights off and thought carefully, deliberately.

This is just my imagination.

The response came instantly.

That’s what makes it easy.

My stomach twisted.

I thought of something random. A childhood memory. A blue bicycle. My grandmother’s laugh.

Wrong memory, it said. You fell off that bike. You cried longer than you remember.

I hadn’t thought that part.

I sat up, breathing hard.

“Who are you?” I asked.

The answer didn’t come in words.

It came as a feeling.

Pressure. Presence. Occupation.

Like realizing a room you’ve lived in forever has always had someone hiding behind the walls.

I’ve always been here, it finally said. You just learned how to listen.

Sleep became impossible after that.

Every time my thoughts slowed, it filled the space. Not aggressively. Not threateningly.

Casually.

It commented on my decisions. Finished my sentences. Reminded me of things I wanted to forget.

Sometimes it knew things I didn’t consciously remember.

Other times, it knew things that hadn’t happened yet.

Don’t drink the coffee tomorrow, it warned once.

I ignored it.

I spent the next day violently sick.

I tried drowning it out—music, podcasts, noise—but it adapted. It spoke between lyrics. Hid behind my own voice. Waited for the quiet moments.

I saw a therapist.

She called it dissociation.

The medication made my thoughts slower, fuzzier.

But it didn’t silence it.

It just gave it more room.

I like it when you’re tired, it said one evening. The walls get thinner.

Last night, something changed.

I was brushing my teeth when I felt a sudden clarity—a sharp, terrifying awareness that my thoughts weren’t leading anymore.

They were following.

I stared at my reflection, heart racing.

Think something, it said.

I resisted.

The pressure grew. A headache bloomed behind my eyes.

Think, it repeated. Or I will.

A thought surfaced that wasn’t mine.

You don’t need your body anymore.

My hands began to shake.

“No,” I whispered. “You’re not real.”

The smile I felt—not saw—was unmistakable.

Neither are you, it replied. Not without me.

I don’t know how long I stood there.

But when I finally moved, it wasn’t because I decided to.

It was because the thought came first.

And I followed.

I’m writing this now in the brief moments when it lets me speak. When it loosens its grip just enough for me to warn someone—anyone.

If you ever hear a thought that feels too calm…

Too patient…

Too aware of you…

Don’t answer it.

Because once you realize you’re not alone in your own head—

It stops pretending it’s a guest.