When I was 14 or 15 I used to hear voices. It was during a very stressful time in my life, when I had just moved from San Francisco to New York City. I was unhappy where I lived with my mom (in Brooklyn’s DUMBO, way before the current revitalization), and I longed to move in with my dad, step-mom, and half-brother.
The voices spoke to me during especially stress-filled parts of my day, but were not directly caused by the specific situation I was in. They did not manifest themselves as direct responses to a situation, but, instead, seemed to happen more frequently when I was unsure of something. If I was at my dad’s and I was about to go back to my mom’s house, the day would be filled with voices.
The voices never actually said anything, as much as they suggested things to me. They were soft and soothing… but garbled. They had the quality of some sort of alien child that knew me quite well, but hadn’t yet mastered the art of communication. Regardless, when they spoke I seemed to get the gist of what was said, and since they often came at some sort of crossroads, when I was deciding which course of action to take, they seemed to almost guide me in a certain direction. They worried me enough for me to mention them to my mother, but they didn’t become dominant enough for me to ever get really scared.
Soon, I moved to my dad’s — first temporarily, then permanently — and I began seeing a therapist. Because of these changes (or maybe not?) the voices soon disappeared and I never heard them again. They remain only as a fleeting memory or sensation, like the remnant of a dream.