“Come on she’s not the bright,” the mean one said. She’s always putting me down, sneering in my mind, thinking she’s better than me. And maybe she is, since it’s hard to take back control once she has it.

“She’s smart enough to know you’re talking about her,” the nice one said. She’s always advocating for me. Her love language is words of affirmation, building me up and telling me I’m the best. She hates having to share control of the motherboard in my brain with the mean one.

I don’t blame her, the mean one views us as weak. She thinks that I need her, whatever that means, to keep me safe. I have to constantly remind her that I’ve been doing this my whole life, figuring out how to live I mean, and she’s not always in control—just when I’m falling to anxiety.

The mean one rolled her eyes. “Please,” she said. “I highly doubt the girl is even paying attention. She loves to put us on the back burner unless she’s in front of the mirror.”

“You never know,” the nice one argued. “We are her. She can listen to us whenever she wants. She can playback our conversations and hear you calling her worthless.”

“I wouldn’t have to call her worthless if she’d learn to act right.”

The nice one recoiled. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“That she’s weak. You’re weak. And unless she lets me take control, she always will be.”

Meanwhile, I was screaming from behind a screen. Banging on the window to get their attention, trying to get my brain back on track.

What was I supposed to be writing about? That’s what I wanted them to focus on.