My Wife Is a Scientist

The voices in Emma’s head did not speak in turns. Ever heard a voice inside your head that wasn’t your own? You may have experienced an auditory hallucination.

The voice might have sounded like someone you knew, making you do a double-take to check they hadn’t come up behind you. Or maybe it sounded like a stranger striking up a conversation or commenting on your choice of clothing.

However the voice sounded, you might actually go paranoid. However, this is not everything. It takes more than this to be the single command.

Emma: Most of the time it's along the lines of whispering that I can't understand or just annoying white noise, almost like a buzzing. Other times it's almost like a radio playing music at a very low volume, and I can never make out what song it is or any words. Can be scary at first, then just extremely frustrating as I try to figure out what is being said or even where it's coming from.

Here's the thing. Yes, those are frustrating, but they can't do any harm, right? So my brain has filtered them out 95% of the time, even though if I stop and concentrate, it's always there.

Now onto actual voices… think about intrusive thoughts. But those are just thoughts inside your head. Now imagine if you could actually hear them as if there were a person, or people, sitting near you, just out of your sight, that were saying such things. Yeah, that's a little different.

So, when my mentality is doing good, I can filter those voices out and recognize they are not real and go on with my day. But when I'm not doing well mentally, it becomes a problem. I can't filter them out; I get closer to a psychotic episode. There are intrusive thoughts, these voices, anxiety, depression, and the feeling of being trapped. The list will go on, and I get into a vicious cycle.

They spoke all at once, layered like rivers meeting at a delta, fertile silt, wildfire, and starlit revelation crashing together inside one mortal skull. That is to say that no one could ever pretend carrying three goddesses is a gift when it feels like trying to hold three ancient storms in the same small heart. The thing is, this love cannot pretend it does not include the exhaustion of being the place where old truths argue about how to become new.

Asase Ya spoke first, always first, her deepest voice rich, patient, like soil after the first rain.

Asase Ya: Root, child. Feel the ground beneath your feet even when the ground itself is cracking. You carry the earth that sustains. You are the foundation that holds the others when they rage or rise. Do not let the warfire burn the soil. Do not let the starlit one pull you too far from what grows slowly and honestly. That is to say that no one could ever pretend strength is loud when the deepest strength is the quiet refusal to let what you love be torn from its roots.

She was the anchor. The one who reminded Emma to breathe when the weight of seeing everyone’s fractures became too heavy. The one who whispered that even goddesses need soil to stand on.

Anat answered with fire, sharp and immediate, the voice of war that had never learned how to be gentle.

Anat: They lie to you. All of them. The teachers who smile while marking you down. The students who whisper while pretending friendship. The world that demands you carry three queens and still act small. Burn it. Decide. Protect what is yours, your brother's, your power, and your right to exist without apology. That is to say that no one could ever pretend peace is real when cowardice wears its clothes. The thing is, this love cannot pretend it does not include the right to answer falsehood with the edge of a blade.

She was the fury. The one who made Emma’s hands tremble with the urge to crack the earth when Lucian’s echoes still lingered in the hallways. The one who pushed her to stop understanding and start acting.

Inanna spoke last, but never least, starlit, descending, rising, the voice of revelation that had walked into darkness and returned shining.

Inanna: Look deeper, daughter. See not only the lies but also the fear beneath the lies. See not only the cruelty but also the loneliness that births it. Descent is not defeat. Rising is not triumph. Both are necessary. Love them enough to show them what they refuse to see, even Lucian, even the bystanders, even yourself. That is to say that no one could ever pretend truth is gentle when it strips every illusion and still chooses to remain. The thing is, this love cannot pretend it does not include the terror of being fully known… and still choosing to love anyway.

She was the mirror. The one who made Emma see too much. The one who turned every small fracture into a revelation that hurt to hold.

Emma sat on the porch steps at 2:17 a.m., knees drawn to her chest, the three voices arguing, harmonizing, and tearing at each other inside her skull.

Emma (thinking, overwhelmed but steady): They don’t agree. Not really. Asase Ya wants me to root and endure. Anat wants me to fight and protect. Inanna wants me to see and forgive. And I… I’m just trying to be Emma. The girl who used to kick rocks with her brother. The one who is now carrying three ancient queens who all want different things from the same heart. That is to say that no one could ever pretend power is a gift when it feels like three different wars fighting for control of one small life. The thing is, this love cannot pretend it does not include the fear that I will break trying to hold them all.

The voices rose again.

Asase Ya: Root.

Anat: Fight.

Inanna: See.

Emma pressed her palms to her temples, breathing slowly.

Emma (whispering to the night): I hear you. All of you. But I am still the one who has to live it. The one who has to walk into school tomorrow and pretend I’m not carrying the earth, the war, and the starlit truth all at once. The thing is, this love cannot pretend it does not include learning how to be three and still only one.

The three goddesses fell quiet for a moment, not defeated, but listening.

For the first time since the awakening, they were learning how to share the same voice without drowning it.

And somewhere inside Emma Garrison, the honest new story was no longer three separate rivers.

It was beginning to become one deep, complicated, powerful current, still turbulent, still learning, but no longer tearing her apart.

The porch steps creaked softly beneath her.

The rain began to fall again.

And Emma sat there, carrying three goddesses, learning how to carry herself.

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