“Okay,” he says. “So what does your voice say?”

I hesitate. Given where I’ve been leading this conversation, it’s not really a question I can avoid. But my hands are suddenly sweating. And because of how much I don’t want to answer this question honestly, I realize just how brave Sam is being with us right now.

“Well,” I say slowly. “Sometimes I’ll make a mistake, and then my voice will tell me how stupid I am.” I clear my throat. “It’ll tell me that everybody knows how stupid I am and that they think I’m a fool. And ridiculous. Or…” I hesitate. This really is humiliating, and I’m starting to wish Oliver wasn’t in the room. “Or I’ll look in the mirror and the voice will say things like look at all those wrinkles, or look how fat your arms are. Nobody wants to look at you.”

I feel Oliver’s startled eyes on me, but I avoid meeting them. Sam, meanwhile, is agog. I’ve come this far now.

“It also likes to tell me,” I say, forcing out the words, “that I’m letting everyone down. That I’m not a very good daughter, or sister, or aunt.” I take a deep breath, and say the last part. “And it tells me the reason I’m not a mom is…is because I wouldn’t be a good enough one.”

I feel Oliver shift in his seat. I focus on Sam’s face instead, his high-alert eyes scanning mine. Children aren’t used to getting admissions like this from adults. Maybe it’s too much. I wonder whether I’ve unnerved him, or made him lose respect for me.

He sits silent for a while, then frowns.

“That’s a different kind of voice, though,” he says finally. “It’s not the same as mine.”

“Well…no,” I agree. “It’s not the same. My voice doesn’t give me orders. Or threaten me. And it’s not always there.” Just on bad days. Just a little too often, recently. “But,” I say, “it’s still a person that lives in my head, that I didn’t invite in, and that doesn’t want the best for me even though it pretends it does. Doesn’t that sound a little crazy to you?”

Sam looks to me, then Oliver, then the floor.

“I don’t know. No. Maybe.”

“They’re just bullies, you know,” I say. “Those voices—they try to tell us they’re our friends. That they’re protecting us; that we need them. But they’re actually just bullies.”

Sam’s silent for a while. Slowly, he nods. We sit for a while, saying nothing.

“I guess you haven’t said anything about this to your parents?” I ask quietly.

He looks away.

“There’s nothing they can do. I’m just like this.”

I swallow a lump in my throat.