My wee little mind is having a bit of regression recently. I heard her saying (and I quote loosely) “Me sorry. Me sorry. Me didn’t mean it. Me didn’t mean it.” And she let out a desperate sigh. Who is she talking to? I wondered. She sure sounded guilty. But what had she done or said that she hadn’t done or said a million times before? After all, I lived with her.

How was I to help a mind that didn’t know I existed? I could be sorry myself, but who would that help? Hmmmm.

I watched her wander into the kitchen and put the tea kettle on. “Me sad. Me sad,” she muttered. Helping herself to two cookies, one for each hand, she climbed up on a kitchen chair to eat them. I sent her soothing ESP messages, hoping she would get one of them at least.

She let those cookies love her and she loved them back. How sad. Then she took up her lamentations again. “No one love me. No one love me,” was now her cry. Like Koko the Gorilla, she needed a kitten to love. Instead she was feeding her fat little face.

Now I was feeling rather blue myself. My mind was having a pity party and my body was feeling the effects. I begin to sigh audibly as my mind continued talking to herself like an imaginary friend. “Me sorry. Me sorry.”

As usual, all I could do was hold her in loving silence. One day she would be struck by a bolt of metaphorical lighting. She would throw off the ropes of her self-created reality and return to her natural state. That is why she is so sad. She is not in her natural state.

“Me love you. Me love you,” I thought I heard her say. Just in case I heard correctly, I said out loud, “I love you, too.” She couldn’t hear me; it couldn’t be explained to her that I was who she really was. Things like that take time.

Vicki Woodyard