Back in the day, someone talking to themselves was a hallmark of trouble. We took it seriously, especially conversations held in public places. The louder the tone, the more an intervention was necessary. Diagnosis did not require nuclear science, and diagnosis was always worrisome.
Time moved along, cell phones were invented. People on the street began to talk into receivers that shrank to the size of card decks. What sounded like self-dialogue was almost everywhere: on subways and sidewalks, in restaurants, around dark corners, in broad daylight. Sometimes the tone was louder than back in the day. No one seemed to care that the surrounding strangers heard everything.
Time moved along again, and earbuds were invented. Now, almost everyone sprouts little attachments in their ears, and it’s even harder to tell whether they’re speaking to an actual human being. Gradually I came to understand: these behaviors were not symptoms, and no one else found them strange. I haven’t stopped wondering what is so imperative that people can’t wait until they’re off the street, out of the bus, and behind firmly closed doors before starting their conversations.
Recently, I caught my husband speaking into his wrist. He was perfectly calm and, after saying goodbye to whoever was in there, explained that his new watch had talked to him first. Back in the day, that would have been a bad sign. Now it was just an Apple feature. My plan, going forward, is not to worry when he lifts his palm to his ear. He is just joining society.
It does make one feel old. But lately, not to be left behind, I have caught myself talking to myself. There is often a good reason; something forgotten that must be remembered, something downstairs that must be retrieved, an impulsive remark made to someone else (who in fact exists) that is immediately regretted. I hear me offering myself encouraging advice, like a coach signaling from the sideline, or chiding myself after an awkward social interaction, or asking myself a question before weighing in with my own answer (which I usually agree with). There is also the occasional affectionate ribbing.
It’s kind of pleasant to be in such close touch. When you address yourself regularly, it turns out, you always have company. There’s also less need for cell phones (which a rare few of us don’t use), earbuds (which the same rare few most likely don’t own) or the Apple Watch (which we don’t plan to buy). Because monologues are one-sided, I can’t talk back—that would be playing both sides of the board, and some of us just aren’t that deft. But mostly I enjoy what I hear, and sometimes even surprise myself. In those moments, I remember a piece of wisdom that a psychiatric mentor, a thin and quiet man who rarely spoke, once offered:
“If you let someone talk long enough, they start to listen to themselves.”
Elissa Ely writes about seniors/baby boomers for The Belmont Voice. She is a community psychiatrist.