The voice inside your head is not, in fact, you. Paradoxically, you've listened to it your entire life without ever questioning the source of the broadcast.
In the beginning, when we are born, there is only silence. Not peace or wisdom, just a blank slate—no narrator, no running commentary, no need for explanation.
Then, at some point—a day none of us recalls—a voice begins to speak. A stove appears, and the voice says, "Hot." A vending machine lights up, and the voice dictates, "chocolate." Initially, this voice seems helpful, practical, like subtitles for interpreting reality.
The crucial shift happens when we learn the powerful word: I. The voice stops simply labeling the world and starts labeling us. It begins to narrate our desires and discomforts: I want, I need, I am hungry, I am scared. In these early stages, the voice and our feeling seem like a single, unified strand; there is no separation between the emotion and the word used to express it.
However, as time passes, a curious process unfolds. Due to the presence of other external voices and signals (like the stove's heat or the vending machine's lights) that repeatedly issue 'yes' and 'no' judgments about the various signals and patterns we encounter, a gap emerges. A split occurs between the word and the world, between the signal/pattern and the voice's interpretation of it.
This leads to a second, more profound split: the separation between the voice in the head and the voice in the body. This is the "full catastrophe": the external world of signals and patterns, the body communicating emotion, and the voice in the head mediating the body's messages with a torrent of judgments: yes, no. Right, wrong. Do, don’t. Good, bad.
A fundamental conflict is established: a battle between the voice in the head and the body, vying to claim the emotion and dictate the resulting action.
This 'war of the voices' takes on a life of its own, evolving from a helpful assistant to a permanent, non-stop houseguest. When a difficult feeling arises, the body's voice might simply state: "I am sad," "I am tired," or "I am thirsty." Now, the voice in the head, echoing the surrounding external judgments, begins to critique that sadness, fatigue, or thirst. It might mock us, shame us, or declare that the world is a rigged game where we are destined to fail—a belief sharply contrasted by the comforting peace and the reassuring smile on the faces of others when the internal echo briefly subsides.
This raises a quiet, central question: If this internal, battling monologue is truly me, why? Why would I ever try to upset myself? Why does this voice always bring me down? If it is my own creation, why can't I simply flip a switch and return to the silence of the nursery? Why does it seem to constantly repeat the cynical views of a neighbor, the harsh criticisms of a friend, or the fear-mongering headlines of the morning news?
Perhaps there is an alternative way to conceive of the self and who is in control. Instead of a unique, authentic voice that defines the real me, perhaps the self is more like a radio broadcast center that has been hijacked by external turmoil.
Welcome to Martial Art!
