I have had quite an interesting time getting started on this blog. I have to admit that I have never kept a blog before (do you keep a blog like you keep a diary?). Parts of me are quite resistant to the idea. They are telling me things like, “What have you got to say that anyone would be interested in?”, “It will take so much time and effort to maintain it!”, “What will happen if someone doesn’t like what you write?!”, “It is too public and you will be so exposed. It could cause you a lot of embarrassment.”

On the other side are the voices of encouragement and action, “If you are serious about setting up this Voice Dialogue UK website then let’s get on with it!”, “You are knowledgeable in this work and good at it and now is the time to put it out there”, “You should have the courage of your convictions!”, “Who cares if people don’t like something you write. If you have something to say, say it!”

Here I am sitting between these various opposites ‘sweating the choice’ as Hal says. On the one side I feel the voices that would have me keep my head down, not risk upsetting anyone and stay relatively hidden. At their core are some sensitive and vulnerable selves that fear not being liked, or that I will make a fool of myself. They are the softer energies. On the other are stronger energies – the action selves that would have me boldly go out into the world, be confident, take the challenge.

Of course, each of those voices is right in its own terms. My task is to listen to them all and make a conscious choice.

So, having checked in with them, I have decided to begin writing this blog using some of the energy of my confident selves but also with one arm around the more fearful parts of me. I don’t know how it will unfold and where it will lead, but I have finally made a start. My sense is of being at the wheel of a bus full of an amazing array of characters setting out on a journey. It is quite an old, but sturdy bus. There is a lot of noise and chatter from everyone. They all have their own agendas, concerns, points of view, needs and hopes. My job is to keep the bus on the road and make sure that everyone is heard, valued and included as we trundle along.

So, all aboard! Off we go, destination unknown. Will you join me for the ride?

I have a cartoon in front of me. It shows a character in a dressing gown commenting as she looks through her wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear to go to work that day. “Incredible new dress, but I can’t find any shoes to go with it…. Ah! Perfect shoes, but no matching skirt…. Hmm. Wonderful skirt, but no matching blouse….. Oh! Great blouse, but no matching slacks…. Fabulous jacket, but no matching skirt, slacks, dress, shoes, jewellery or belt…!”

In the final scene she is sitting on the bed phoning her boss: “The individual parts of me are all prepared to come to work Mr Jones, but as a group we won’t be able to make it.”

I had a similar crisis the other morning getting ready to teach a one-day workshop. At least two different parts were trying to dress me. It was a warm day and I knew the participants would be dressed casually – probably in shorts or jeans, t-shirts and trainers. The atmosphere would be relaxed and everyone would be expecting to have fun. Even so, my Conservative self thought I should wear a newly pressed pair of chinos, polished leather shoes and a smart shirt. As the trainer I should project an image of professionalism – otherwise my status would be undermined and I wouldn’t be taken seriously.

My Conservative self remembers with embarrassment an incident some years ago when I was teaching a one-week seminar in Japan. The participants were all senior managers and I wore a suit and tie every day. Halfway through the week I wanted to get some feedback from my Japanese colleague who had organised the programme. I waited until we were sitting naked in the communal hot bath. For Japanese this is a situation where the requisite Polite and Pleasing selves can be put to one side and one can be open and reveal one’s true feelings or “honne.”

“So, Iwasa-san, how do you think the seminar is going?” I asked. My own sense was that all was going well, so I was quite taken aback when he hesitated, drew breath and said, “Maybe there is a problem, Kento-san.” A problem? What could it be? My mind raced through various possibilities. Perhaps they didn’t like the content. Maybe my English was too difficult for them. Or had I inadvertently been culturally insensitive? “Please tell me Iwasa-san so that I can fix it,” I said.

“Well, Kento-san, it’s your shirts,” he replied. My Shirts?! I didn’t understand. I wore a clean, pressed shirt every day. They weren’t loud or over-styled. “Please explain,” I urged. “You wore a blue shirt on Monday and a red striped one Tuesday and a grey one today. They don’t understand why,” he answered. Now I was really puzzled. He continued, “As the “sensei”, or teacher, you have to be sincere, calm and consistent in order for them to trust you and receive your teaching. Wearing a different coloured shirt every day is not showing consistency and this is confusing to them.”

The lesson was learnt and ever since, my Conservative self has had a heightened sensitivity to my appearance and especially how my clothes might impact a group in a negative way. With this memory in mind the message was clear – I should play safe and not be controversial. I reached for my chinos. But even as I took them out of the cupboard another voice intervened.

It was my Exhibitionist self, a part of me that loves to be provocative. Allied with a Rebel self, he delights in shocking people and getting a reaction. One way to do that is to have me wear unusual or unconventional clothes. He once had me buy a T-shirt that said: “F_CK, all I want is U”! Of course, my Conservative self had had a panic attack and had made sure that this particular T-shirt languished in a bottom drawer, buried beneath “decent and respectable” clothing.

One look at the chinos and my Exhibitionist rebelled. No way did he want me to wear such “non-descript and boring” clothes! As I scanned my wardrobe his eyes settled on a blue T-shirt. Printed in big letters on the front were the words: “Just another sexy bald bloke.” That would do nicely. I put it on and then pulled on a pair of tight Levi’s. A brassy cowboy belt and an old pair of trainers and the outfit was complete. I looked in the mirror. He was satisfied.

It wasn’t more than a few seconds before the voice of my Conservative self sounded sharply in my head, “Are you seriously going to stand in front of a group of complete strangers wearing such inappropriate attire!?” And so the to and fro between these two selves began. I took the jeans and T-shirt off and replaced them with the chinos and shirt. I looked in the mirror. My Exhibitionist gave his frank opinion, “Dull, drab and dreary!!”

Phoning in like the cartoon character and cancelling the workshop was not an option. I needed to sit with these two opposing selves and find a solution. So I changed back into my pyjamas and went downstairs to eat breakfast. As I sat munching my toast I listened to their arguments. I knew that whatever I chose to wear, one of them would be upset…. Finally, as I sipped the last of my coffee I decided. I went upstairs made my selection, dressed myself and left for the workshop.

So who won? Which self turned up to teach my workshop – my Conservative or my Exhibitionist? With a nod to both I chose to wear the jeans with a conventional belt, the trainers, and a neutral coloured shirt. That way both selves could be present to inform my work. I could be professional and casual. Sitting over breakfast with my opposing selves enabled me to take charge of them rather than have either one take charge over me!

The ‘war of the wardrobe’ can offer wonderful insights both for facilitator and client in a Voice Dialogue session. On one occasion for example, a lady who for several sessions had worn unobtrusive pastel colours, arrived in a bright red dress. That day her Sexual Rebel spoke out. “Did you dress her this morning,” I asked. “You bet!” she said feistily, “It’s about time she listened to me!!” Or the tolerant, new-age mother who turned up one day in a dark top with a wide, pristine white collar. Her inner Puritan who railed against her easy going attitude to raising her children wanted his presence to be noted and his voice heard: “Spare the rod and spoil the child!” was his message.

So, take a moment to observe what you are wearing right now and ask yourself “who dressed me today?” Maybe this will clue you in to a particular self that is trying to get your attention and appreciation.

Seeing me standing on the crowded tube train, a young woman stood up and offered me her seat. I felt shocked and a little upset. It seemed like only yesterday that I would have done the same for a senior citizen. Did I really look so old? A voice in my head said that I was quite capable of standing the next ten stops to my destination and that I should refuse. If I had allowed it to speak there would definitely have been an edge of indignation to it. I hesitated. Actually, my legs were aching a little and I was feeling tired. I smiled at the young woman and, with some relief, sheepishly accepted her kind offer and sat down.

I was twenty-five for many years. Then when I turned fifty I decided to act my age and became thirty-five. Now as my sixtieth year draws ever closer I fear my grip on thirty-five is weakening! Several things have recently conspired to undermine the confidence I have had in my mental and physical capabilities…..

“I didn’t know you smoked!” I said as Karin sat down to eat her lunch, placing an unlit cigarette in readiness on the table beside her plate. Karin is the young Columbian waitress at my local café. “Yes, you knew,” she replied with a warm smile, “You said exactly the same thing a couple of weeks ago when we sat at this very table!” Was I losing my mind? I had always had an impeccable memory. I was mortified.

My friend had parked her car in my street to save money. As a resident I have parking permits for visitors for just £1 per day. But when I placed the permit on her dashboard I forgot to scratch off the box showing the applicable time of day. The result was a £30 fine! I berated myself for being so stupid? Me, the Careful Planner! Mr Organised!! I never used to make silly mistakes like that.

As a dynamic seminar leader I used to pride myself on my stamina. I would push myself and the participants hard during the intensive 16 hour days, often being the last to leave the hotel bar at night. I worked longer and harder than any other trainer and despised those who weren’t able to keep up with me. These days, if I am to function well the next day, I have to pace myself and make sure I get to bed early. Part of me feels deeply embarrassed by this. It feels that I should be able to work just as hard as before.

The words of T.S. Eliot’s Prufrock come to my mind: ‘I grow old… I grow old… I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.’ They remind me of my grandfather who, when on holiday by the seaside, would stroll barefoot along the shoreline with my grandmother. When I look in the mirror these days I see more and more of him in my face and my physique. “And what’s wrong with that?” you may ask. Well, it depends through whose eyes I see myself.

If I look at my current mental and physical capacities through the eyes of the primary selves that ran my life in my 20’s and 30’s they will find much to judge. My Mind will have anxiety attacks when I misremember or forget information. My Perfectionist will cringe when I make mistakes. My Organiser and Planner will go ballistic when I can’t find something, screw up a schedule or double book an appointment. My Pusher will despair when I tire more easily and don’t have the energy to finish a task quickly enough. If I remain identified with these selves as I grow older, my Inner Critic will have plenty of rods with which to beat me! Growing old will be a painful and dispiriting experience.

To avoid this requires that I unhook from the primary selves that have run so much of my adult life and take a little of the medicine of their opposites. I have to allow myself to accept offers of help from others, not remember everything perfectly, not know it all, make mistakes, be more spontaneous and flexible, and take breaks and naps. The reality is that my neurons are not firing as they once did and my body doesn’t have the strength and endurance it had when I was younger. To try and pretend otherwise – to still identify with the rules of my primary selves – will only result in increasing frustration and hardship.

When my friend who left her car in my street came to collect it I told her about my mistake with the parking permit. Rather than be upset, she empathised with me and then told me what had happened to her that very morning. She had stayed at her brother’s house overnight and had put the kettle on to make herself a cup of tea. Smelling burning plastic she rushed back into the kitchen only to find that she had put the electric kettle onto the gas hob to heat!! We both burst into laughter and suddenly everything lightened up. We agreed that incidents like this would only get more frequent as we grew older and that to chastise ourselves served no purpose. Then suddenly we had a great idea: why not set up a contingency fund to cover the cost of parking fines, new electric kettles and the like?!

Being able to separate from our primary selves and embrace their opposites makes us more compassionate – both to ourselves and to others. This is one of the great gifts inherent in growing old and the secret of graceful ageing.

‘My great religion is a belief in the blood, the flesh, as being wiser than the intellect. We can go wrong in our minds. But what our blood feels and believes and says, is always true.’

D. H. Lawrence

My friend Michael was hurting. We were having a drink in a bar downtown. “I am sick and tired of this!” he grumbled, “I don’t understand why it won’t clear up. Why can’t I find a cure?” For some months he had had an irritation in both eyes. Every time I saw him he complained about it – how debilitating it was and how annoyed he was that he couldn’t fix it.

Michael was a medical doctor and a psychiatrist and had his own private practice. He was very skilled at helping clients with their physical and emotional problems. People would even come to him from out of state to seek his advice. But nothing he did could make his own eye infection go away and he was feeling deeply frustrated and angry with himself.

“I’m at my wits ends,” he moaned, “I just can’t figure out what’s wrong. I have tried all sorts of medications, but nothing will shift it. I’m a doctor for god’s sake. I should be able to heal myself!”

Although I empathised with him, I had grown tired of his whining. I decided to be proactive. “How about talking to your eyes?” I suggested. Michael had studied Voice Dialogue with me and was familiar with the Psychology of Selves. “I guess we could schedule a session sometime,” he replied warily. I knew that ‘sometime’ meant ‘never’ and resolved to grab the bull by the horns. “I mean right now,” I insisted. “What, here in this bar!?” “Yes.”

There was hubbub all around us – the clinking of glasses, music playing, people laughing and chatting. I knew that this wasn’t the most appropriate location but intuitively I felt that now was the moment to act.

“Move over a little and let me speak to your eyes,” I said firmly.
A little taken by surprise, Michael slid his chair to his left.
“Hello, am I speaking to Michael’s eyes?”
“Yes.”
“I understand that you haven’t been very well recently and that Michael hasn’t been able to do anything to heal you.”
“That’s right.”
“Can you explain what this infection is about and what Michael can do to help you?”
“That’s easy. He needs to cry.”
“Really? He doesn’t cry?”
“No.”
“Is there something that he needs to cry about?”
“Of course! He didn’t cry when his father died. His mother died two years ago and he didn’t cry. His partner died last year and he didn’t cry. He needs to cry!”
“I see. And if he cries then the infection will go away?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything else Michael needs to do?”
“No. He just needs to allow tears to flow through me. Then I will be OK.”
“Thank you for talking to me.”

Michael moved his chair back and sat opposite me with a stunned look on his face. This short, to the point interaction had taken both of us by surprise. “It’s true,” said Michael thoughtfully, “I have never really grieved their deaths and I have certainly never cried for them. I’ve always been to busy taking care of other people and their needs and never allowed myself the luxury of letting my own feelings out.”

Some weeks later Michael called me to say that he had been taking some time out from his busy doctor’s schedule to sit quietly and feel the sadness of his bereavements. As he had done so, the tears had flowed and sure enough his eye infection had slowly cleared.

At the end of that year we met for dinner. I was leaving town and moving to another city and Michael had invited me for a farewell meal in a local restaurant. He seemed more relaxed and less driven than previously. He told me that he now saw the eye irritation not as a curse but as a gift. Realising what lay behind the infection had led him to re-evaluate his life. He had cut down on his workload and was now spending much more time at home cooking, gardening, walking his dog and simply being with his feelings.

At the end of the evening we embraced and said our goodbyes. And as we hugged I saw that Michael had tears in his eyes.

The first time I saw him he was sitting on a small brown suitcase outside Cliff’s Variety store in the Castro area of San Francisco. He looked forlorn and anxious, glancing nervously at the faces of the passers-by from beneath a curly nylon wig. His ankle length dress was decorated with a cheap floral motif and buttoned up to his neck. Over this he wore a soiled, brown raincoat. Perched on his head was a small felt hat and on his feet a pair of old trainers. Leaning against the tin cup in front of him was a small sign, hand-written on a piece of torn cardboard: ‘Only need another $285.60 for my sex change.’

Over the next few weeks I saw him in several different locations, always dressed in the same clothes, a few coins in the cup and the amount on the sign unchanged. On each occasion, I felt mysteriously effected by the sight of this eccentric character, silently soliciting the help of strangers. I imagined that he had no friends and nowhere to stay and that the suitcase contained all his worldly possessions. He seemed like one of life’s victims, downtrodden and destitute. And yet he had a certain dignity about him. Although I had never met him before, I felt I knew him. How could this be?

It was some weeks since I had last seen him when I visited a friend of mine with whom I regularly traded Voice Dialogue sessions. It was my turn to be facilitated. I had been experiencing anxiety in my stomach and wanted to explore what the cause might be. I wasn’t aware of being worried about anything in particular and hoped the session might provide some insight and perhaps some relief from the symptoms.

After checking with my protecting self to make sure it was OK to look at this issue, my friend asked to speak to the part of me that was causing my stomach to churn. I moved my chair over to one side and felt my body tighten and tingle as if all my nerves were on edge. I crossed my legs and began tapping my foot on the ground. The aching in my stomach increased and I rocked backwards and forwards, my arms cradling my belly. I glanced nervously at my friend as if unsure or fearful of her reaction.

“Hello. Do you have a sense of your purpose in John’s life?” asked my friend.
“I worry,” came the reply.
“What do you worry about?”
“Everything.”
“Everything?”
“Yes, no matter how big or small, whether past, present or future. I worry.”
“Are you worried now?”
“Of course! I’m worried about this session, and whether he turned the gas off before he came out and locked the door properly, and if he’ll get home safely, and whether there is enough food in the fridge for dinner tonight, and if his seminar participants like him or not, and what would happen if he got sick and couldn’t work, and what the neighbours would think if he let’s the hedge grow too big, and what would happen if he went to pay for something in a shop and there wasn’t enough money in his wallet, and…..”

As I continued talking and deepened the experience of being my Worrier, I was amazed to realise that I had begun to feel exactly like the guy sitting on his tiny suitcase begging for money! My self-image was of a lonely transvestite, marginalised and anxious, yet sure of who I was and of my right to be that way. I had the strongest sense that if I looked in a mirror right then, that is who I would see looking back at me. I would be wearing the same tired clothes and have the same expression on my face.

“Well, it’s a real pleasure to meet you,” continued my friend, “Do you have a name?”
“It’s Esmeralda,” my Worrier replied. There was a sense of pride in her voice.
“That sounds like a pretty big job you have, Esmeralda. How much of John’s energy do you take up?”
“A lot. More than he knows.”
“And do you do this 24/7?”
“Yes. But they don’t like or appreciate me,” Esmeralda whispered.
“Really? Who are they?”
“Those big guys over there that run his life.” She pointed to the opposite side of the room. “You know, the one that likes to be in control all the time, the organised one, the planner and their cronies. They think they are so powerful and so perfect! They hate the way I worry about everything all the time. To them I am a nuisance and they look down on me as weak and effeminate. But let me tell you something, it only needs 1% of what I worry about to prove correct and all the worrying will have been worthwhile. I can’t tell you how many times I have saved their arses by pointing out something they have overlooked!”

“Does John appreciate the hard work you do?” enquired my friend.
“No. He’s so under the sway of that lot that he hardly notices me. So I give him a stomach ache to remind him I’m here.”
“What do you need from John?”
“I want him to notice me and to accept me for who I am instead of ignoring me. I have my pride and I have my dignity and I don’t like being treated like I am some kind of freak! If he listens to my concerns I can be of great help to him.”

My friend thanked Esmeralda and I moved my chair back to the centre and separated from her energy. I took some deep breaths. My stomach ache was gone.

I never saw the guy around town again. Maybe he moved on. Maybe he got enough money to have his sex change. Whatever happened to him, his image and energy resonated with me. Twenty years on, Esmeralda is alive and well. In fact, I can feel her in my stomach right now. She has a long list of worries, but most of all she’s worried about this blog and what you will think of it….

“I want a dog.”
“OK, then you should get a puppy.”
“No, I don’t want the hassle of training a puppy. I want an off-the-shelf, ready-to-go, adult dog. And one that has had a full medical at the rescue centre.”
“Hmm… Well, I still think that what you need in your life is a puppy.”

My friend and I had this conversation a few times. If we were out together and saw a young dog pulling at its leash he would point to it, smile knowingly and intone: “A puppy.” Oscar knew me well and was very intuitive. But I was beginning to get annoyed by his insistence. I didn’t want a puppy and that was that!

I was living in Tucson, Arizona at the time. I lived alone, worked from home and had a lot of control over my schedule. My small rented house had a back yard and there was a communal area in front shared by the other single-storey, adobe houses. A fence surrounded the whole complex and many of the renters had pets. A medium sized, mature, well-behaved dog would provide me with some company and force me to take more exercise. There was a neighbourhood park just up the road and a dry riverbed nearby where I could walk a dog for miles. I decided to go to the rescue centre the next Monday.

Late Sunday evening there was a knock on my door. It was my next door neighbour. Cradled in her arms was what at first I took to be a fluffy black hat. “Hi. I have just come back from a camping trip in the White Mountains and look what I found there. This little critter was scavenging in a trash tip. He was such a mess I had to take pity on him. I couldn’t just leave him there, but with my crazy work schedule there’s no way I can take care of him. I know you have been thinking of getting a dog so I thought you might like to adopt him.”

She opened her arms and a pair of soft brown eyes peered at me with a mixture of interest and fear. The ears were bald from scratching and the coat was mangy. “The poor thing had a piece of wire tied around his tail when we found him. God only knows what cruelty he has suffered. I think his short life has been pretty tough.” After a pause, she offered him to me to hold, “How about it?”

A part of me – my stern Rational self – was horrified, telling me very clearly not to be swayed by her emotive words. But as I held the little guy and felt his thin, bony body, my heart melted. He seemed so vulnerable and alone in the world. “Give me time to think about it,” I replied.

Later that evening Oscar came by. “You see, I told you. It’s fate. Of course you have to adopt him!” And so it was that Bip came into my life. He cost me an arm and a leg in veterinary bills – de-worming, de-lousing, antibiotics, vaccinations. I had to toilet-train him and put up with chewed chair legs and other damage to household objects. No one knew for sure, but the best guess was that he was a Retriever-Newfoundlander mix. As the months passed he grew ever larger, his increasingly long black hair clinging to carpet and cushions whenever he moulted.

I had just come across Voice Dialogue and was slowly becoming aware of my inner cast of characters – the ones that ran my life and the ones that were more buried. I soon realised that Bip was my disowned Wild Child – high energy, confident, outgoing, inquisitive, risk taking. My primary selves – my Rational Mind, Pusher, Pleaser, Organiser and Planner – knew they had to take charge of him or he would run amok.

My mother once told me that soon after I was born, when it was clear she wouldn’t be able to have any more children, my father made the following pronouncement: “John is an only child and we are not going to spoil him.” I watched myself follow this injunction with Bip. I set strict limits around playtime. I would romp and tussled with him and play tug of war with an old slipper. But then with his excitement revving up, I would feel a powerful urge to disengage. “That’s enough for today,” my inner Strict Father would say and I would pull back my energy and focus instead on answering emails or quietly reading a book. My father had done the same to me when he had withdrawn to his office and busied himself with church matters. He had been the organist and choirmaster as well as treasurer on the parish council and his free time was rationed. Part of me empathised with Bip as he looked at me with those doleful eyes, willing me to carry on playing. But my Strict Father was resolute and would not be won over.

Control was a big issue between us – especially when Bip was selectively deaf to my commands. If he didn’t stay when he was told or come when I called him, I would feel a pang of anxiety, immediately followed by a smouldering anger. He would look at me for a second as if to say, “You’re kidding. No way!”, and then be off, leaving me barking helplessly, “Come here when I tell you to!!” When I finally got him back on the leash my Controlling Father would scold him for being so disobedient. Bip would act contrite for a while, head down and tail between his legs, but pretty soon his tail would be up, his eyes sparkling and he would be on the look out for the next adventure. Secretly my buried Rebel admired and adored him, willing him to cut loose whenever he got the chance.

When I gave him treats, groomed him or told him how handsome he was, I would feel my Nurturing Mother glow inwardly. But this would always be accompanied by twinges of guilt – I was after all breaking the golden rule and spoiling him. My self-esteem would be affected by people’s reactions to him. If someone ignored him I would feel upset – as if I had been personally shunned. On the other hand, when people petted and admired him for being such a handsome and clever dog, I would hear my Proud Parent say to himself “That’s my boy!”

Bip met the love of his life when he was two years old. Esperita was a giant Airedale whose owner, Michael, lived in a big house on the very edge of town in the Tucson Mountains. They bonded the first time they met and seemed destined for each other. Walking the two of them in the desert or in the town I felt an amazing sense of pride – as if my “son” had found the perfect “daughter-in-law”! I doted on her even as I remained stern with him. When I left the USA, Bip went to live with Michael and Esperita. Aged fourteen, he ended his long life in very different circumstances to the way he had started out, as that poor, abandoned mutt.

Bip was my teacher and Oscar’s intuition had been absolutely right – taking care of this little being was just what I had needed in order to learn more about my inner selves. Now, twenty years later, I have a weird feeling of déja vue. I have a house in London with a garden, a stable home life, and my schedule is my own. I am thinking about getting a dog. As before, my first thought is to adopt an adult rescue dog. Uncannily my partner’s response is: “What we need is a puppy!”

My Inner Critic was slow to respond but when it did, its attack was devastating: “What a stupid thing to have done! Everyone will see how bad you are. You weren’t focussed, you hadn’t prepared, you asked leading questions, you were too prescriptive… And anyway, who do you think you are? There are much better and much more experienced people than you. What do you think they will say when they see your lousy performance?!”

That morning six of us had gathered at a studio in central London to make a couple of short videos for YouTube. I would be facilitating two Voice Dialogue sessions that would then be posted on our website and available for all to see on the worldwide web. With the cameras rolling and a small audience to play to, my Presenter – the extrovert part of me that usually takes centre stage when I teach seminars – had taken charge. He had strutted his stuff, delighted to be in the limelight.

But clearly, my Inner Critic hadn’t been impressed. Later that evening, when I was home alone with time to reflect, he made his views felt. On a private “MeTube” video in my head, he projected every aspect of the demonstrations in minute detail. He zoomed-in, paused, magnified and replayed each perceived mistake as I squirmed with embarrassment. “You were hijacked by that Presenter. You were not giving a seminar. It was an altogether more dangerous situation. What were you doing exposing yourself to the judgements of others who might disapprove, ridicule and reject you?! You stuck your head in the air asking the whole world to shoot at you! The only way to stay safe is to keep your head down!”

As I listened to this onslaught I began to recognise the rules of my primary protecting selves: don’t show off, stay in control, think things through, and be well prepared. I realised that my Inner Critic was simply trying to enforce these rules in order to protect the vulnerable parts of my personality – my young Shy and Sensitive selves – and to make sure that I would never expose them in such a way again.

Suddenly I remembered another situation involving a camera. It was 20 years ago when I was studying Voice Dialogue with my teacher Gail Steuart. I had done a lot of sessions with her and discovered many of my selves. I was aware that when speaking as my different selves my body language and facial expression changed. I wanted to see just how different I looked, so I bought a video camera and, with Gail’s permission, arranged to film a session.

We set the camera up behind Gail in the doorway of her consulting room so that it would capture me whether I moved my chair to the left or the right. After a final check to make sure everything was in focus, I switched the camera to record and we began the session.

First she talked at some length to a couple of my very competent primary selves – my Pleaser and my Rational Mind. They felt very comfortable and didn’t seem at all worried by the presence of the camera pointing at them over Gail’s right shoulder. Then a young and tender energy emerged that was very shy. It sat tightly curled on the floor, did not look at Gail and whispered only a few words in answer to her questions. It was very sensitive, anxious about the feelings and opinions of others and afraid of being judged or rejected.

When the session ended we were both excited to see the video. I had clearly gone through some physical changes and was eager to watch my selves in action. While Gail made us some coffee, I rewound the film and switched on the wide screen TV. We took our seats for the show and I pressed “play” on the remote.

I was intrigued to see how as my Pleaser I moved my chair closer to Gail and leant towards her when speaking. My body language was open and my face warm and friendly. I maintained good eye contact and it even seemed like I was playing a little to the camera! As my Rational Mind I sat further back and was sterner in appearance. My face was tighter and my body language more guarded, arms and legs crossed. Again, I was able to look directly at Gail as well as at the camera.

I could not wait to see how I came across as my younger Shy self. I watched as I sat on the floor but was then astonished to see myself move back until I disappeared completely from the screen! Gail and I looked at each other in amazement. I had moved to the corner of the room and curled up out of range of the camera. This was a part of me that really did not want to be seen. Neither Gail nor I had been conscious of this at the time.

To be on camera, or even worse on a video accessible to thousands if not millions of viewers, is terrifying to my Shy self. On reflection I understood that my Inner Critic’s harsh words were actually an attempt at damage control. To be self-critical is less painful than being criticised by others. It is a form of defence, a kind of pre-emptive strike. If I can say, “I know I wasn’t good – I wasn’t focussed, I hadn’t prepared enough, I asked leading questions, and I was too prescriptive,” it helps to shield me from the external barbs of those who might judge me.

The YouTube videos have been edited and are now available for all to see. Just search YouTube for “Voice Dialogue UK” and you will find them divided into 5 short sections. Alternatively you can view each one separately at: http://vimeo.com/4102934 and http://vimeo.com/4226016. Whenever I sit down to watch them, I invite all my selves to gather around. I put one arm around my Inner Critic, the other around my Presenter and place my Shy self safely on my lap. I invite you to watch the videos and to notice which of your selves are sitting with you. What do they have to say? How would they have behaved in front of the camera? Would they even have allowed you to do such a thing? I’d love to hear their comments. You can post them on this site by clicking the blue “comments” button below. Thanks.

I awoke and felt a slight twinge in my lower back. There was no obvious reason for it so I concluded that I must have slept awkwardly. I got up gingerly and made two cups of tea – one for myself and one for Richard, an old friend who was sleeping on a futon I had rolled out on the living room floor of my small flat.

Richard was sick. He had arrived from the States a couple of days earlier and had immediately come down with a heavy cold. He groaned his thanks for the tea and said that he needed to spend the day in bed. He wanted to make sure that he recovered in time for a seminar he was teaching at the weekend. I looked around the room at his stuff – his clothes spewing out of his open suitcase, his papers and laptop covering my dining table, and his used tissues strewn over the floor.

It was not the best time for him to be visiting. I had recently bought the rights to the loft space and was having it converted. It was going to transform my flat and enhance the value but right now it was chaos. Even though the builders had tried their best to be considerate, it had been going on for a week already and the dust and noise had become horribly intrusive. Today they were putting in a new staircase and I had been forced to stack a lot of stuff in my bedroom to make space for them. Clearly, I was not going to be able to relax at home. I decided to go out.

I left the flat to Richard and the workmen and took the train into central London to do some shopping. As the day wore on, the pain in my back got steadily worse. I tried to ignore it but it didn’t want to go away. I told myself that it would be better after a good night’s sleep. When I got home that evening I found Richard feeling a little better and the staircase up to the loft half completed. He was moving to his seminar hotel the next day but asked if he could leave most of his stuff with me over the weekend. Of course I said yes.

When I woke up the next morning the pain was worse and I had difficulty getting out of bed. Richard left for the seminar hotel and I pottered around and made tea for the workmen. The dust was everywhere. It had filtered under every cupboard door and into every nook and cranny of my flat. As the day wore on the noise of banging and sawing seemed to get louder and louder. It was a great relief when the workmen left, but by then my lower back was hurting so much that it was a struggle to stand up. It felt like a cramp extending down into my right buttock. I feared that if I sat in my low armchair to watch TV I might get completely stuck!

The next morning, with the pain no better, I was getting desperate. I considered taking painkillers or making an appointment to see my doctor. But then my mind wandered to the Voice Dialogue sessions in which I had worked with people’s aches and pains to help them find out what might lie behind their symptoms. “Surely you should be trying this with your own pain,” said a voice in my head, “Isn’t it time for you to walk the walk!”

I got a pen and paper and gently sat myself down at the table. I drew a rough outline of a body and then made a mark where my pain was located and focused on it. Next I took a clean sheet of paper and with my right hand – my dominant hand – acting as facilitator, I wrote down a question addressed directly to the pain. “Hello, do you have something you want to say to John?” I then took the pen in my left hand and waited for an answer to come. It is not easy writing with your non-dominant hand, but slowly the answer took shape. “I feel cramped,” it wrote.

Using my right hand again I asked, “Please tell me more about that feeling.” My left hand responded: “There’s no space for me. I feel pushed out. Richard was here and now he’s left all his stuff. The workmen walk all over the place every day with their big boots. It’s noisy and dusty and I can’t relax!” The dialogue continued for about 30 minutes during which time I found out that this was a five year old part of me that felt overwhelmed and upset. How appropriate that the pain in my back felt like cramp! Finally I asked this Child self what it needed to help it feel better and it replied, “A walk in the park, a long bath and a hot chocolate.”

That afternoon I took a leisurely walk along by the river. I took time to notice the plants, the trees and the birds. I sat in a café and drank a large hot chocolate. In the evening I ran a hot bath and had a long soak. To my great relief, when I awoke the next morning the pain had lessened and was now a dull ache.

At the end of the weekend Richard came back for a few days before flying home. Once again I had to put up with his stuff lying scattered over my living room floor – as well as the continuing noise and dust from the workmen. But now I found that if I took time to tune in to my Child, to listen to what it wanted, and where possible and appropriate, to act on its demands, the pain continued to ease. After a couple of days it was completely gone.

Since then, whenever I feel that slight twinge in my lower back I take note. I stop what I’m doing and ask myself how I might be ignoring or overriding the needs of my Child within. I have learnt to listen better when my body talks and to respect the feedback that it gives me about the current state of my physical and emotional wellbeing.

I still keep some painkillers in my cupboard and do have cause to visit my doctor sometimes. But by paying attention to the psychosomatic clues that my body presents and opening up a dialogue with the voice that lies behind my symptoms, I have been able to heal myself in ways that no amount of pills or the most astute doctor could have done.

I woke up and flicked the radio on before opening the curtains. “It’s the worst snow in London for 18 years,” said the early morning newsman. “All bus services have been suspended, many trains have been cancelled and schools closed.” I immediately felt upset that my plans for the day had been disrupted. But then, before I knew it, I was up and peering through the window, excited to see the thick white blanket of snow muffling the street.

As I gazed outside I felt myself being tugged in two opposing directions. My more controlling, professional selves were annoyed at the disruption. For them the snow was a real nuisance. I would have to make phone calls to cancel or postpone meetings and change my very sacred schedule! On the other side were my younger, more light-hearted selves, happy at the opportunity the snow gave them to come out and play. If I went with the former, I knew I would spend the day inside working at my computer and frowning through the window at the snow as it continued to fall, each flake piling up more disruption. If I went with the latter, I would use the weather as an excuse to abandon all thoughts of work and take the day off.

Either way, parts of me would be upset. Staying in and working would upset my inner kids and, come the end of the day, they would make me feel like a real spoilsport for not having let them out. On the other hand, taking the day off would incur the judgement of my Pusher and Organiser who would make me feel a good deal of guilt about “wasting my day”. I knew I would have to sweat this choice if I was to stay conscious.

I let these voices battle it out in my head as I had my shower and got dressed. After a hearty breakfast it was time to decide. Putting an arm around both camps I let them know my compromise. I would split the day into work time and fun time. I would deal with the phone calls, rescheduling and some emails first. Then I would go outside with my partner – who was unable to get to work – take a walk and enjoy the snow while it was daylight. In the late afternoon after dark I would come back to work at my computer again. Sorted.

How hard it was to stay conscious! I completed the tasks I had set myself and then, as if on autopilot, found myself writing another email and checking another document and making yet another phone call. The morning was slipping away from me. I heard my Pusher whispering, “Just one more thing, and then go out. Just one….” And at the same time I became aware of the growing upset on the other side: “Are we going out or not? Are you going to keep your promise?” I snapped to, closed the computer, called to my partner that I was finally ready, and put on my boots and coat.

Outside was magical – the enveloping white, the crunch of the snow under foot, the lack of traffic, the icy glow on my hands as I formed the snowballs, the cold drip down my neck as my partner’s snowball hit its mark. Our inner Kids came out to play as we made our way slowly towards the local shops. With schools closed, there were many children and teenagers out on the streets having a great time. Some had built a huge snowman with a carrot nose and apples for eyes. Others were pulling each other along on makeshift sledges.

On the faces of the adults I could see differing reactions to the snow. I wondered how many of them had gone through the same inner dialogue as me. Some fathers were obviously delighted to have an unexpected day off with their kids. Couples walked hand in hand smiling and chatting as they sipped warming cups of coffee – for them the weekend had arrived early! However, the faces and postures of others betrayed different emotions. Gripped by their fearful selves, older people shuffled along anxious that they might slip and fall. Then there were the frustrated businessmen heading with gritted teeth towards the station just in case a train might arrive and carry them late to work. I could imagine their inner voices sounding, “Bloody snow!” “Another day wasted!” “That is all I need right now!”

When we got to the local supermarket I was surprised to see it was packed with people. There weren’t too many smiles, and an atmosphere of mild panic hung over the aisles. Then I realised why. There was no milk on the shelves, no eggs, only a few loaves, no tins of soup and many other basics were in short supply. The lorry that delivers goods daily had not been able to get through. I could feel a part of me starting to kick in, “Quick, we should buy what we can before it all disappears! What will we do if we run out bread?” Here was the part of me that sees the glass as half empty rather than half full. Then another voice told me to, “Just chill. Don’t get caught up in this ridiculous panic buying. There’s plenty of food at home.” I smiled to myself and we left the shop without buying anything.

We continued our walk through the winter wonderland lobbing snowballs and shaking trees as we walked under them to make the snow fall from the branches onto our heads. Darkness was descending as we arrived back home a bit damp but happy. At my desk again I reflected on this snowiest day for 18 years. I thought about how easily external conditions can influence our inner climate. I ran through the cast of characters that had showed up in myself and others: there were the Pusher, the Controller, the Magical Child, the Playful Child, the Fearful Self, the frustrated Business self, the Deficit self, the Easy Going one…

So much snow, so many selves!

The young cyclist sped round the corner on the pavement (sidewalk) and nearly hit me. I was startled and then angry and after I had collected myself called after him that he was crazy! I watched indignantly as he carried on without so much as a glance back in my direction. My reactive voices started up as I walked on towards the town centre: “So irresponsible, inconsiderate and rude! He could have at least apologised. Typical of young people these days!”

By the time I had walked to the next major intersection I had calmed down a bit and started to focus on my to-buy list. I waited for the little green man to indicate that I could cross the road safely. I was thinking about which order I should visit the various shops when who should pull up beside me but the same cyclist. He was listening to his i-pod and seemed oblivious to me. I was incensed!

My reactive voices started up again and before I knew what was happening I stepped towards him and tapped him authoritatively on the shoulder. He looked surprised and wary. I launched in. What did he think he was doing riding so dangerously? He had nearly hit me just now. Cyclists should ride their bikes on the road or on cycle paths, not on the pavement which was intended for pedestrians like me.

He reluctantly took an earphone from one ear. “What’s your problem?” he scowled. I repeated that he had ridden his bike dangerously and had nearly hit me. “No, I saw you and avoided you. Anyway, I can ride wherever I want.” “Have you ever read the Highway Code?” I spluttered. “You can’t do just as you please. The rules apply to bicycles just as much as to anyone else.”

It was water off a duck’s back. He gave me a look of studied indifference. The green man showed and he raced off, this time looking over his shoulder to utter, “Piss off!” I was left feeling outraged and impotent.

I was unable to let go of my judgements about the young cyclist. I felt destabilised and in no mood to do my shopping now. I needed to sit down and get a handle on my reactive voices, so I headed for a favourite coffee shop.

Sitting down with a comforting cup of cappuccino I started to reflect on what had happened and my reactions. What did my visceral judgements tell me about my Primary Selves? Startled and shocked by nearly being knocked over, I could now see that several selves had jumped into offensive mode to protect my vulnerability: my Responsible Self, my Rule Follower, and my Considerate Self. I developed them all in my youth under the influence of my parents who were kind, responsible, law abiding citizens. They were the selves that were judging this young guy so harshly. Additionally, there was the self that has developed since I turned 50 which judges “young people these days!”

I smiled as I contemplated the latter and how I had hated it when my father used to say the same about people of my generation. I realised that my father was alive and well and living inside me! But also alive in me were the energies represented by the young cyclist. As I separated from my Primary Selves I could feel their discomfort as I started to look at the Disowned Selves the cyclist represented: Rebel, Rule Breaker, and my Carefree and Confident Selves.

I suddenly remembered my father saying to me in his later, more mellow years that he was worried that I hadn’t been rebellious enough as a teenager. In retrospect, he thought it was not healthy to be such a good boy all the time. Well, of course, I had secretly rebelled and broken the rules. I had ridden my bike all over London in dangerous, heavy traffic when my mother’s rule was that I was supposed to stay only in the safe streets close to my suburban home. I had also ridden on the pavement and in my fantasies I had bad mouthed anyone who got in my way or criticised my behaviour!

As I acknowledged this, I felt my judgements about the cyclist ebb away to be replaced by a smile of recognition. To complete the process I decided to reframe my judgements and ask what gifts a small dose of the cyclist’s energies could bring me this afternoon. Hmm…. let me see…. yes, greater self-assurance, the confidence to break the rules sometimes, and a sense of fun.

I finished my cappuccino and left the café to get on with my shopping. As I went from shop to shop I realised that I felt calmer and more expanded. I had a spring in my step that wasn’t there before. And I noticed the young sales assistants seemed to respond to me with a smile, a lightness, and (was it my imagination?) a wink of recognition!