The trouble with Bob is that he’s a cynical, sarcastic bastard. Not to mention sneaky. Just when you think you’re on good terms, when everything’s fine between you, he’ll hit you with something vile. He has an uncanny sense for choosing the perfect moment—and the perfect weapon. And often, he doesn’t even need anything big: he’s a master at killing with small things. Well-timed small things. The little shit.
I’ve sworn countless times that I’d cut him off for good. But it’s just not possible. Talking to Bob is a bit like a perversion—you know it’s not right, you suffer from it, yet you keep going back for more. As if you enjoyed the pain. And what pain! It tears you apart. He makes you walk through the very depths of hell. And you go, as if you had no choice.
I can’t even remember when he first entered my life. In the beginning, I hung on his every word. I knew he meant well. He would always point it out when I did something stupid. If I didn’t agree with him, he would gently but persistently explain where I’d gone wrong. He’d draw my attention to little things that, in the heat of the moment, I might not even have considered. He helped me choose my clothes, navigate my relationships. He urged me to be reserved, modest.
When it came to my appearance, he was always strict. He never liked anything flashy or showy. And he especially disliked it when I ignored my “assets.” He never cared for tight trousers. I, on the other hand, had always wanted to wear leggings—at least for sports. Shiny ones. Pink, or the shade of purple Anett had back in elementary school. God, I wanted them so badly! But Bob would gently lead me to the mirror and point out my round bottom and my solid thighs. My “inborn assets,” as he called them—things no sport could ever change. Sure, I was muscular, but Bob made me understand that bubble butts and leggings are not friends. They avoid each other. So I didn’t wear them. Not even in PE class. Later, not in college either. Only baggy sweatpants.
From time to time, we drifted apart. There were areas he didn’t want to meddle in. Maybe he didn’t feel confident enough in them, because he never commented on my work. No matter what task I was given, he didn’t criticize. Since he wasn’t an economist, those topics never came up in our conversations. There was a period when I got so absorbed in my job that I almost forgot about him. He must have taken offense, because I didn’t hear from him for quite a while. But when I was offered the position of Chief Financial Officer, he showed up immediately.
He wanted nothing to do with it. He was already outraged that I’d even considered the offer. Appalled that I hadn’t shot it down on the spot. He said I should have been insulted by the mere suggestion that I’d take on such responsibility. He kept wiping his brow when, that same weekend, I found out I was pregnant. He joked that I would forever be in my son’s debt for saving me from a colossal failure. He was convinced I would have crashed and burned. When I asked if maybe I could have learned everything I needed along the way, he didn’t give me a straight answer. He mumbled something about how the rest of the management team wouldn’t have had the patience to wait. He also had nothing to say when I pointed out that everyone knew my abilities, and that the offer was made with that in mind. Instead, he circled back to my son again—telling me to focus on him now, rather than on “what might have been.”
Two years ago, I threw myself into all sorts of coaching tools. That’s when I learned that you have to be careful when choosing a name. It’s best to pick one you have no emotional attachment to. And apparently, naming it is essential—supposedly it’s easier to catch it in the act and tell it to sod off. Or at least to shush it. That’s how my inner voice got its name: Bob. And does yours have a name?