Tulpa

Author’s Note: This short story describes instances of suicidality and trauma. Please consider whether this would be emotionally triggering and proceed with discretion.

One

It was dark and quiet the night it happened. Night was usually filled with erratic yells in the acute psychiatric unit at the Regency Behavioral Health Hospital in Southwest Virginia. Strangely, I sleep better on the noisey nights. But on this night, I experienced the most painfully slow passage of time, alone in the midst of a severe depression. Minutes crept along, one after the other. The darkness intensified my loneliness and anxiety. I was so mentally and emotionally uncomfortable that I could have ripped my hair out. 

To calm my mind, I tried to imagine some engrossing fantasy. But, I had no creative energy. Even if I did, it likely wouldn’t be strong enough to overpower the presence of the depressive weight. 

I was never going to get past this hollow, empty feeling. Never feel normal again. I was never going to fit in with the people I knew at school. Never be successful. 

Then, on this painful night, in the utter silence, I heard a quiet, soft, female voice. She whispered:

“I’m here with you.”

I froze. I looked around to see if my roommate was awake or if there was another patient in the room with us. My eyes had adjusted enough to the dark to see that my roommate was sleeping on her modest twin bed. Our room was empty except for our beds, and someone else would be easily seen against the yellow cinder block walls. There was no one else in the room. 

I was startled by the voice. It was clear. It was undoubtedly a human voice. I wondered at first whether this was God’s voice. I wouldn’t have expected God’s voice to be female, but that seemed possible. I wasn’t a devout follower of God and I rarely prayed. I hadn’t even asked God to speak to me. I doubted this was the explanation, but I held it as a possibility. In addition to making sense of this moment, I was also struggling with the fact that this wasn’t the first time I heard this voice. It was the second.

Three weeks prior to this eventful night, I sat in my mother’s apartment above her garage, considering an attempt to overdose on my medication. When I had resolved to go forward with the attempt, right before I picked up the pills, I thought I heard a female voice softly say, “Stop”. It startled me even more in this moment, given my vulnerable emotional state. I tried to determine the origin of the voice and was shaken away from my decision to attempt to overdose. Three days later, with no evidence of where the voice came from, I carried out my attempt and woke in an ambulance on the way to the ER.

My name is Hailey. And this is the start of my relationship with a part of myself called She. This manifestation of a separate identity within oneself is called a “Tulpa”, and She saved my life. 

Two

Something miraculous happened the night in the hospital when She spoke to me for a second time. And not just the miracle of hearing her voice. After She said she was there with me, I was so distracted trying to find out what happened that I fell into a deep sleep. Early the next morning, I laid in my bed rationalizing what had happened. It must have been the early part of a dream. Or it must have been a gust of wind that I mistook for a voice. Or it was a nurse’s voice  down the hallway.

After eating breakfast in my room, we had our morning “community meeting”. I sat silently throughout the meeting in the circle of chairs. The community room smelled like stale coffee and a slight whiff of mildew. The acute unit of the hospital held people with severe psychotic decompensation, long-standing clinical depression, catatonic schizophrenia, and, in my case, people that are “actively suicidal” (among other concerns). My doctors kept me in the acute unit because I couldn’t deny my intent to overdose again. Though, as I sat there on that morning, I wanted to keep living for the first time in a while. I was waiting to see if She would speak to me again. 

My schedule for this long day in the Regency Hospital was a counseling meeting before lunch, another community meeting in the afternoon, and a meeting with the psychiatrist after dinner. I had counseling meetings two or three times a week with a psychology intern that rotated through the hospital. He was one of the few staff members that didn’t seem exasperated with the patients. 

“How are you today, Hailey?,” asked Dr. Samuel Young.

“I’m okay. Pretty good actually,” I said. 

“Good. Has something changed today?”

“Um, maybe the medication is working,” I said. The psychiatrist had increased my anti-depressant since I entered the hospital and added a mild sleep medicine. My answer made me wonder for the first time whether the voice was a side effect of the medication. 

“Ok. That’s good. Have there been other changes?,” Young asked. 

“Not really. I was able to sleep last night.” A part of me wanted to tell my psychologist about She. But the staff in this hospital tell each other everything. My psychiatrist treats everything like a symptom. If he caught wind of this experience, I’m sure he’d have a new diagnosis and medication to give me. 

“Good. That’s really good for mood that you were able to sleep,” said Young. “We were talking about your stress with school last week. What would you want to talk about today?”

He was tempting me. He always let me decide what we’d talk about. “I was having a really bad night last night. I was just lying there feeling depressed. And then, all of a suddenly, I felt less alone and fell asleep. It was weird.”

“You say it happened ‘all of a sudden’, but I wonder if there was something active that changed, with your thinking,” said Young.

“I don’t know. Maybe I was just telling myself I wasn’t alone.” 

“Who were you thinking about?,” Young asked. 

“I don’t know,” I said. 

“Were the suicidal thoughts present last night?”

Counselors and psychiatrists always have to get back to the symptoms. “Actually, no.”

“Good,” Young said. “Are they present today?”

“No.” 

“Great. That’s quite a shift today.”

I felt like an animal being rewarded for behaving the right way. By the end of this meeting, I had determined to get out of the hospital as soon as I could. Things were different, but the staff would have no idea why. For some reason, knowing that She was with me changed everything. 

Three

When I returned home from the hospital the following weekend, my first task was to conduct some detective work. I sat in my cold, drafty room above the garage and started with the tool we all use when we don’t know something: a Google search. I searched “hearing a calm voice”. The first result discussed socially acceptable ways to modulate the volume of your voice. Then, the next listing was a website called “Managing Voices”. It explained the experience of hearing voices in a pretty helpful way. They talked about how some voices are positive, some are negative. There were testimonials of people on the site that had a good relationship with their voices. Though, the site generally seemed to conclude that the voices were a temporary state due to sleep issues, fever, drug use, hunger, or grief or ongoing mental health issues due to stress, trauma, mood disorders, or schizophrenia. They framed positive ways to cope with the voices, but they also encouraged controlling the voices or getting treatment. I wasn’t going to count out these explanations, but it didn’t feel like it fit the experience with She.

Then, in the comments area of this website, I saw a user refer to their voices as a “Tulpa”. So I entered this into my Google search. At the top of the search, an infographic from Wikipedia defined a Tulpa as “a concept in mysticism and the paranormal of a being or object which is created through spiritual or mental powers.” Websites said that people can intentionally create (or unintentionally experience) these voices, which have their own feelings and thoughts, that live in the mind. I was lead to discussion boards on Reddit that connected to thousands of people that experience Tulpas. I spent hours reading people’s posts. While many posts involved people that created their Tulpa, there were also a lot of posts that described a spontaneous manifestation of their Tulpa, like my experience with She. Throughout my reading, I learned the best conditions to converse with your Tulpa: a quiet, private space after spending at least 10 minutes in silence. With this advice, it was time to try to talk to She.

I moved from my desk in my small room and sat on my area rug next to my bed. I closed my eyes and sat in silence for a number of minutes. This kind of quiet would have driven me mad a few weeks ago. Now, I sat in excited anticipation. After what felt like an hour, but was probably ten minutes, I decided to say something.

“Hello?,” I said out loud. It felt ridiculous. It was silent for a few seconds. 

“Hello?,” I said again.

“Hi,” She said.

I was thrilled! She was there! I began talking to her inside my head instead of out loud.

“How did you get here?,” I asked. 

“I came when you needed me.” She always had a calm, soft voice; almost monotone.

“Thank you for being there in the hospital,” I said. 

“I’m always here when you need me,” She said. 

“So…are you experiencing things through me? Like, are you there all the time seeing what I’m seeing and hearing what I’m hearing?”

“Yes. I’m part of you.”

“Are your thoughts different than mine?”

“They can be. I’m a different part of you, with some different feelings and thoughts.”

I wasn’t sure if She was just feeding me the information that I had just read on the website. Or, was I feeding myself the information? This was still a little disorienting. 

“What do you like to think about?,” I asked her. 

“My favorite thing to experience and think about is the outdoors,” She said. 

“Really? What about the outdoors?”

“Anything about the outdoors. I love when we’re outside, taking in the air and the smells of the outdoors.” 

“Well,” I said. “Lets go outside.”

“Tonight. At sunset,” She said. 

“Ok.” 

I hadn’t felt this level of excitement for years. I didn’t blame the people in my life – my friends at school, my mom, my “boyfriend” (a title he wasn’t comfortable with) – for not being able to provide connection in my life. When you feel the way I had been feeling inside, there’s no extra emotional energy to extend to others. Even letting someone take care of you involves emotional energy. But, She was different. The shock of her voice coming out of nowhere was mysterious and energizing. Plus, She knew me in a way that didn’t require effort on my part. I didn’t have to explain what I meant when I said something. I’d never felt so comfortable with myself.

Four

That evening, right after the sun went down, I walked from my backyard into an open farm field behind the neighborhood. It was a cool evening in the fall, about a week before Halloween. The field had recently been acres of corn that was harvested earlier in the month. Now, it was a flat open field of soil, brown leaves, and the withered bottoms of the corn stalks. The moon had just started rising above the horizon. It was almost full and was beautifully bright. I sat on the ground and listened to the evening sounds. A dog barked in the distance behind me. The dried leaves on tree branches were rustling together in a slight breeze. 

“The moon is almost full,” said She. “It has a lot of influence on the energies that we experience on Earth.” 

“Yea. That’s pretty amazing,” I said. 

“During the full harvest moon, many civilizations have believed that the boundary between the living and dead is at its thinnest,” She said. 

“I’ve heard something like that before,” I said. “It’s cool to think about the energy around us that we can’t see. I’ve always imagined that there must be energy left over from people that have walked this field before. But I’ve never experienced a direct encounter with a spirit or ghost.”

“On the feast of the Harvest, some people believe that good and evil spirits walk among us,” said She. 

“Hmm. Makes you wonder if you can feel them haunting you, or maybe protecting you during this time of the year. I’ve always loved this time of year. I feel energized by the cool fall weather and I’ve always been excited about Halloween and telling ghost stories. Makes me wonder if I’ve had a good spirit following me around this time of year. Or maybe it was you,” I said. 

“There are a lot of energies – whether present in the external world or present in our internal psychological world – that can protect and haunt us,” She said. 

I sat and thought about this for a few moments. It rang very true to me. There was an unspoken direction to the conversation between She and me. I knew She was thinking about the past memories that haunted me, even though I rarely thought about them. 

“I remember the energy from my mom on a day when we had to be on-guard with my dad,” I said. “Her eyes were wider and she spoke a little quieter. It was never a matter of if my dad would blow, but a matter of when he would. I guess that feeling haunts me.”

“Why do you think it still haunts you?,” asked She. 

“I don’t know. I’m not aware that I’m on-guard most of the time. But I notice I am when I think about it. I guess I feel like I still have to be ready to protect myself from getting hurt. And there are times that my mom is still on edge, and there’s no telling whether she’s going to lose it.”

“I was always there when those things happened,” said She. 

My eyes began to burn and tears welled on my eyelids. 

“I don’t mean this in a bad way,” I said, “but why didn’t you say anything to me while that was happening? How was I supposed to know you were there?”

“You weren’t ready to hear from me yet. But we made it through those moments together.”

I sat there with the bright, orange light of the moon blurred by tears in my eyes. For the first time in a while, it wasn’t crippling fear that I was feeling while thinking about that time with my parents. It was heavy sadness that I had to endure that experience. I was also feeling sad about my mom’s experience.

I also felt a strong desire to return to school. There was a time not long ago that I could picture myself in a successful career. But my depression made it seem impossible to finish school. Maybe I didn’t have to do it alone.

Five

The next morning, I sat at my mother’s kitchen table eating breakfast. Sitting down with a cup of coffee, my mom asked:

“When do you think you’ll go back to your dorm room?”

“I’m ready to go whenever you can drive me,” I said. “I feel fine. I’m ready to start classes again.”

Before my trip to the hospital, I had started undergraduate classes at Bradford College. It’s a small private college a town over from where I grew up. I had received a scholarship for the engineering and design double major. I had wanted to work in robotic prosthetics since grade school. When I went to the hospital in early October, the dean of my school gave me a temporary medical leave of absence. All of my professors agreed to let me make up my work when I left the hospital.

“Don’t you have to see your therapist today, too?,” my mom asked. “Maybe you should wait to go back until after that meeting.”

“I have it later this afternoon. We can go back after if you want,” I said. 

My mom sat silently for a few seconds and I could tell she was thinking about how to phrase a question.

“Do you know why you wanted to take all those pills?,” my mom asked. “And, you seem so much better now. Did they do something that helped in the hospital?”

“Um, it’s not anybody’s fault, mom. I was just sad,” I said. 

“What made you sad? Was it your father?,” she asked. My father was in-and-out of my and my mother’s lives until I was 12 years-old. Then, he went to prison with drug charges and conspiracy to commit murder through his connections to a criminal group in town. My stupid dad led the state police to the whole thing. His phone and car were tapped. He wouldn’t get out of prison until his 64th year at the earliest.

“The stuff with dad was fucked up. But, I never had a relationship with him. I told you, my therapist told me I don’t attach well to people. I just feel lonely sometimes. But, like I said, I’m feeling better.”

She’s voice entered into the conversation, but only for me to hear: “Your mom feels guilty because she doesn’t know how to connect with you. She doesn’t think she deserves to connect after the childhood she put you through.”

I provided my response in my head: “Isn’t she your mom, too?”

“Yes. She technically is,” said She. 

The rest of the day, before my therapy appointment, I continued to explore online communities for people with Tulpas. I was starting to connect with some of the members. People in the communities – minus the occasional troll – were very supportive. They encouraged my relationship with She and said many folks with social anxiety and depression benefit from tulpas. They talked about their therapists and the fact that most mental health professionals didn’t know what to make of tulpas, and most were not supportive of the experience being therapeutically beneficial. Then, around midday, I opened some of my work that my professors sent. It took me three hours to catch up on the work that I missed for three weeks. She teased me about being really smart while I worked. 

Six

Later that day, my mom drove me to my therapist appointment. I had been working with Dr. Tracy Hill for the past four months. My pediatrician recommended Dr. Hill when I first went to her to discuss medication for my depression. I had a pretty good connection with him, but we hadn’t made much progress because I was so depressed. He knew I had some suicidal thoughts, but I hadn’t expressed the urgency of them before I made my attempt. He was probably going to be disappointed with me.

I walked into his waiting area in the front room of a small Victorian house. As I sat there for a few minutes, I chatted with She about my trip back to school that night. The waiting room always smelled like a fragrant candle. He usually had one burning in the waiting area with fall scents or pine trees. At 5pm, Dr. Hill came out to bring me back to his office. His office was small, but very cozy. He had a big, overstuffed couch that I sat on and he sat in a big, overstuffed armchair. His office was surrounded by tall book shelves filled with books and different decorative statues and items. 

He began the meeting: “It’s good to see you, Hailey. How are you feeling?”

“I’m actually feeling a lot better. A few days after I went into the hospital, I had a really good night’s sleep and have been feeling much better since,” I said. 

“I’m so sorry you were struggling so much the night you made the attempt,” said Hill. “Do you want to walk me through what you were feeling?”

“Um, it’s honestly hard to say. It feels like a long time ago. I had been feeling so depressed for so long, that I think I was just ready to give up,” I said. 

“Ready to give up on fighting against the depressed feelings?,” Hill asked.

“Basically. I was pushing through a lot of bad feelings every day. I was tired of faking it and trying to keep up with everything,” I said. 

Dr. Hill sat for a few seconds, with a concerned look on his face. Then, he said, “So, it sounds like there’s been a dramatic improvement. How do you make sense of this big change?”

I had been debating in my mind whether I could bring up She with my therapist. Other people with Tulpas said their therapists didn’t understand the phenomena and some therapists viewed the Tulpa as a symptom. But one of the things I liked most about Dr. Hill was his personal take on my depression. He rarely talked about it as a set of symptoms. He usually talked about “natural pain” that came from life experiences, though he also said depression can take on a life of its own after a while. 

I couldn’t carry this big, important experience in my life without being able to tell someone. And, the confidentiality of therapy would allow me to keep it private for now. So I took the plunge. 

“There’s something that happened in the hospital that changed things. The one night, I couldn’t fall asleep and was just lying there feeling depressed. And then, out of nowhere, I heard a voice. It was a calm woman’s voice saying she was there with me. I made sure that I wasn’t hearing something else in the hospital and realized it was a voice only I could hear. In that moment, I remembered hearing the same voice a few days before my attempt. It had told me to stop from making an attempt. Since I’ve gotten out of the hospital, I’ve been able to talk to this part of myself.”

Dr. Hill sat there looking like he was very curious and confused. It took him a long 5 seconds to say something. When he started talking, he switched his expression to appear calm.

“So you hear this voice audibly? Like something being said out loud by someone else?,” Hill asked. 

“Yea, but she explained to me that she’s a different part of my own mind. I’ve done some research online and I found out that this part of someone is called a ‘Tulpa’,” I said. 

“A Tulpa?,” said Hill.

“Yea. I don’t know where the word comes from. It’s supposed to be an ancient concept of creating a mental being inside your own mind. Some people create them on purpose, and some people experience them spontaneously.” 

“Wow. This is really fascinating,” said Hill. “It doesn’t sound like the voice was distressing for you at all.”

“No. It made me feel better. It takes away the intense loneliness I was feeling,” I said. 

“You said you’ve been talking to this part of your mind since you left the hospital. What have you been talking with her about?”

“Most of the time, she experiences what’s going on in the moment with me. Sometimes she’ll comment on an interaction with my mom or what I’m doing. Other times we have conversations with each other.”

“What topics have the conversations been about?”

“She – I call her ‘She’ – told me about her experience with the natural world. How this time of year involves spirits being present around Halloween time. She’s also talked about some of the things I’ve experienced as a child. The times my dad was abusive to my mom and how she’s reacted.”

Hill asked, “How did you feel during that conversation?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I felt emotional. Like, I felt bad for myself and my mom. But the feeling was more productive, if that makes sense. And I didn’t feel alone with the feeling.”

“That’s fantastic!,” said Hill. “Not that you were upset but this is such an important development. I have so many questions but we’re out of time for today. So you feel okay going back to school and your classes?”

“Yea. I feel better than I’ve felt in a while,” I said.

“Ok. I’m going to support your return. Please update me immediately if there’s a big change toward depressed or distressed feelings. OK? And let’s continue to meet weekly for a while. Ok?”

“Ok.” I felt so relieved to tell someone about She. And Dr. Hill couldn’t have been cooler about it. I’m sure he had his suspicions about what was going on, but it made all the difference that he wanted to understand what was going on. 

I felt as excited going back to school that evening as I had when I started college. This was almost a fresh start for me. I felt more confident about myself in ways I maybe never had. Yet, lo and behold, my newfound confidence wasn’t going to last the whole week.

Seven

Upon returning to my residence hall that evening, I checked in with my Resident Assistant (RA), Brittany, to let her know I was back. 

“You have to go to the Dean’s office first thing tomorrow morning to talk to someone about coming back onto campus. The office opens at 8:30,” said Brittany. 

“Ok. Thanks.” 

I had texted my roommate, Hannah, earlier in the day to let her know I was returning that evening. When I arrived at our room, she jumped from her bed and gave me a big hug. I threw my bag onto my bed, which was raised into a loft. 

“I’ve been so worried about you,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better. I told the girls from Theta that you had the flu. Most people don’t know what happened.” 

Hannah and I happened to have a lot of upperclass friends (or, they were really Hannah’s friends that knew me) in our residence hall that were also friends with Kappa Alpha Theta sorority sisters (my “boyfriend” was in the partner fraternity, Lambda Chi Alpha). Our friends all considered themselves a part of the Theta house even though some of us weren’t sisters. Hannah and I didn’t get a bid to pledge the sorority earlier in the fall.  

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m sorry I scared you. I’m doing well now.” Then I said, “Isn’t it a little early for the flu?”

“Ha! I guess,” said Hannah. “Are you starting classes tomorrow?”

“After I meet with the dean’s office.” 

“Hey, there’s a party tonight. You up for it?,” asked Hannah. 

“Um, yea. I guess so. It might be good to get the awkward re-entry out of the way.” 

Hannah and I walked to the Theta house off campus. It was just a rented house, not an ornate greek house. The school didn’t sanction houses for fraternities and sororities. There appeared to be some people inside the house, but a lot of the guests were outside on the front and back lawn. We walked to the back lawn to see some close friends and my boyfriend, Rob. I had barely talked to Rob through my time at the hospital. He was concerned, but didn’t seem to know how to act and was uncomfortably avoiding the issue. 

Rob gave me a big hug when he saw me. He seemed high and drunk from the way he was acting. 

“I’m so glad to see you,” he said. He took my hand and started to walk me inside. 

“Where are we going?,” I asked. 

“Let’s get you a beer.” 

“I can’t drink with my medicine.”

“Oh. Yea. Do you want to smoke?”

“Yea. Fine.”

We sat in some lawn chairs in the backyard and Rob packed his vaporizer with some sort of strong pot. We passed it back and forth for a few minutes.

“You seem really quiet,” Rob said. 

“I’m just relaxing,” I said. After a few seconds, “Look at the moon. It’s full tonight. Did you know the full moon at this time of year represents the height of spirit activity?”

“Man. You’re really high,” said Rob. 

“No I’m not. It’s interesting. Do you ever think about the different times that we’re alone but maybe we’re not really alone?”

“Not really,” said Rob. “Are you feeling okay being back?” Rob had a nervous look on his face. 

“Yea. I’m actually doing really well.”

“Did the hospital help?”

“Somehow or other it did.”

“Lets go inside. There’s a bunch of people dancing downstairs,” said Rob.

Rob walked me down the stairs of the old house into a dark basement. The students renting the house set up big speakers, strobe lighting, and a smoke machine for a mock dance club atmosphere. The air was humid with the sweaty, drunk students dancing with each other. The concrete floor was wet with beer and various other drinks spilled on the floor. 

Rob put his hands on my hips and started swaying back and forth to the beat of the music. The music was one loud vibration after the other. It felt like the music was going through you. Rob moved closer and was grinding his leg between my legs. As we were moving back and forth, I looked around at the other couples and groups of people dancing. Everyone looked like they were in their own drunk world. There were so many people in the room and so little actual interaction between people. The people probably felt safe for the moment. They were more comfortable being in this crowd of people in their drunk or high state. Yet, there was no lasting connection being made. Even Rob looked like he was in a daze dancing with me. I yelled to him that I had to go; that I was tired. He offered to walk me back, but I said it was early and he should stay at the party. 

Hannah walked home with me. She was excited about a boy that spent time with her again. 

As she was describing the encounter detail by detail, I checked in with She in my mind. “Do you feel high too?”, I said. 

“Of course I do. But we’re used to this feeling,” said She. 

“I’m glad you’re here with me,” I said. I expected She to say more, but she let me think. 

Eight

The return to class went better than expected. The Dean of Students Office said I was required to continue my therapy and medication and to follow-up with a counselor at the college two or three times. My classes were so large that semester that my absence was barely noticed. I was able to dive into my classes in a way I never had during my depression. My professors were impressed. 

At the end of the week, it was time for my mom to drive me to my therapy appointment. I walked out to the parking lot outside my residence hall. Unexpectedly, my mom was sitting in the passenger seat. Did she want me to drive?

Then, I saw a disheveled man sitting in the driver’s seat. 

“Who’s that?,” I asked. 

“It’s a friend from my NA meeting,” said my mom. 

“Why is he driving with us? I’m not going with a strange man in the car.”

“He’s harmless. We’re going to a late lunch after our meeting.”

“How do you know he’s harmless?!?,” I said. “Are you using again?”

“I’m fine, honey. You need to get to your appointment.”

“I’m not going with him!”

“I can’t just leave him here,” my mom said. 

“You’re using again? Aren’t you?”

“No! I need to have a life too! It’s been stressful with you in the hospital.” 

“I’ll get a ride with someone else,” and I started walking away.

“Honey! Get in the car!”

I kept walking, away from campus, until I was out of view from my mom. I kept walking down to the river below town. I walked for hours. She was surprisingly less talkative. At times She asked if I was okay and at times asked what our plan was. She would technically know these things, so I think She just wanted to keep me company. 

There’s an abandoned mental hospital on the other side of one of the bridges called St. Philomena’s. They use it as a halloween attraction this time of year. I walked over the bridge to the building. It was small for a hospital; the size of an average apartment building. There were sections divided by police tape for lines going into the haunted attraction. I sat under a tree in the old parking area. I stared at the old building, imaging the view when it was originally built in the 1800s. This would be a large field surrounding the hospital at that time. The patients would be secluded on this side of the river, away from town. I felt like I belonged in this space. I was tired of trying to make my life work with my mother, my friends, my boyfriend, my baggage. It would be easier to live by myself. 

“You don’t think you can connect with people?,” asked She.

“I probably can,” I said. “I just don’t want to right now.”

“You’re connecting with me.”

“Yea, but does it count if you’re connecting with yourself?”

“Sure.”

We sat for a minute, looking at the cloudy sky slightly glowing from the light of the moon. 

“What else do you feel connected to?,” asked She.

“Um. I don’t know,” I said. “I care about people that are struggling. I would have felt connected to the people in this hospital.”

“It’d be easier to be around people that understand your experience,” She reflected. “What is it that your mom and your boyfriend don’t understand?”

“The problem with my mom is that she understands too well. She understands the trauma we’ve been through. She’s still in it. But she thinks sometimes that I was too young to completely take in the real emotional impact of the trauma.”

“Even after you tried to kill yourself?”

“Obviously she doesn’t get it. She’s still bringing strange guys around and she’s probably using again.”

“She can’t get out of her own pain.”

I looked up at the dark, abandoned building. The tortured souls that lived in there were long gone (at least in physical form). Guests walk through there now, screaming in fear and excitement at the idea of what this place used to be. 

I walked back, halfway across the bridge. There was a sidewalk for pedestrians down either side. I stopped and looked over the edge of the bridge. It must have been 35 feet to the river below. I looked at the reflection of the moon on the water’s surface. It was barely peeking out of the clouds. 

“What are you thinking?,” asked She. Again, she must have known but asked to get me talking.

“I’m tired of this. I can’t grow in my life if it keeps coming back to the same dysfunction.”

“Are you going to jump in there?”

“No.”

A few beats past, still staring at the water.

“I’m going to go to class tomorrow,” I said. 

Suddenly, my surroundings exploded with red and blue flashing lights. I spun around and saw a police cruiser pulling over to the side of the bridge. It was campus police.

“Ms. Wright?,” asked the officer as she stepped out of the car.

“Yes,” I said. 

“People have been looking for you on campus,” said the officer. “I’m going to give you a ride to the hospital. The school would like you to see a social worker.”

“What? I’m ok. I can just go back to my room,” I said. 

“No, ma’am. Your mom said you might be suicidal. We have to take you to the hospital for a bit. I have to put these on.”

The officer took out a pair of handcuffs.

“Why do you need to use handcuffs? Am I under arrest?”

“They’re for your safety and mine, miss. We have to put on cuffs if someone is in our custody.”

My head was swimming. The officer fastened the cuffs with my hands in front of me, patted me down to see if I had any weapons, and helped me into the back of her police cruiser. It was a short drive up through town and under the highway to the New River Hospital. 

I sat in the emergency room with the officer for four hours before I was taken back to the examination rooms. She had taken the cuffs off, but I wasn’t allowed to use my phone. It felt like we were sitting there for days. 

When I was taken to the examination room, it took another hour and a half until the psychiatrist-on-call could see me. I was sitting on a bed behind a long curtain that surrounded the space. It was basically in the middle of a hallway, so privacy was minimal.

The psychiatrist pushed the curtain aside and walked into the space. “Are you taking your medication?,” he asked. 

“Yes,” I said. So much for introductions. 

“400mg of Wellbutrin?”

“Yes,” I said. 

“Are you having thoughts of killing yourself?,” he asked. 

“No.”

“Are there guns in your household?”

“I live in the dorms. No.”

“Are you experiencing strange thoughts or feelings, like hearing voices or seeing things others don’t see?”

Hmmm. Going to need to bend the truth here. “No.” It’s not a strange voice. 

“I’m going to add an antipsychotic to your antidepressant.”

“What? I’m not psychotic.”

“It treats the depression more aggressively.”

“I don’t want to take an antipsychotic, doctor.” 

“Do you want to feel better?”

This psychiatrist seemed half awake. “I’ve been feeling okay. My medication has been working and I’ve been doing well at school. I just had a fight with my mom tonight.”

“If you don’t want to fill the prescription, that’s up to you. But I’m going to leave this with you.” He printed out the prescription form and put it on the table in front of me. “We’re going to release you for tonight. There’s emergency numbers on your paperwork if you need immediate care.”

He left the room swiftly. 

I sat in the room for ten more minutes, not knowing whether someone else was coming or whether I was supposed to leave. Eventually, I walked out to the reception area to see if I could leave. The receptionist didn’t know at first and one of the nurses passing by looked at my chart and gave me my discharge paperwork. The officer had waited for me and drove me back to my residence hall. I didn’t sleep much that night. She tried to help talk through the night’s events but I didn’t talk much. 

Nine

I woke the next morning to the sound of my cell phone ringing. I could tell it was a number from the school.

“Hello?,” I said. 

“Hi. Is this Hailey Wright?,” said an older woman. 

“Yes.”

“This is the Dean of Students, Dr. Moore,” she said. “You spoke with the Associate Dean when you returned to school last week. I received notice this morning that you were having a bad evening last night. What did they say at the hospital?”

This was really strange to be introduced to a staff member at school that knew I had been in the emergency room last night. I guess campus police updated the school. 

“They said I was okay to go back to my dorm,” I said. 

“How are you feeling today?,” Moore asked. 

“A little tired, but I’m okay. I’ve been doing better but I just had a fight with my mom last night.”

“I know. Your mom called us really worried last night.”

Was the school also worried that my mom wanted me to get into a car with a strange man? 

“Yea. I’m okay now,” I said. 

“Given your mom’s concerns, do you think it would be best to go home for a bit? We can help you withdraw without penalty for this semester. Maybe you should focus on your therapy at home for a bit,” said Moore. 

“Honestly, I feel better at school, Dean Moore. I’ve been doing fine with my classes. I want to finish out the semester.” 

“Well, we’ll cover your absence for this week and I’d like you to go home for at least this week.” 

I didn’t feel like I had any choice. I don’t know why the Dean was so insistent on getting rid of me. 

“Um, ok. I’ll get a ride home this afternoon,” I said. 

“Are you going to travel with your mom? We’d prefer you go home with her so she can update us when you get home?” 

“Ok.”

I had lunch with Hannah that afternoon and rode home with my mom. Thank God her new man friend wasn’t in the car. 

“This is bullshit!,” I said to She in my head. 

“They didn’t really listen to you, did they?,” She asked. I knew She meant the school. 

“No. They listened to my child of a mom!”

“Your mom really is like a lost child,” said She.

“Where’d you go last night after you walked away?,” asked my mom. 

“I just walked around town,” I said. 

“You really scared me. I didn’t know if you were having another episode like the night you went to the hospital.” 

“I was mad at you, but I was fine,” I said. 

“Tell her more about how you feel,” said She. 

“She won’t hear it,” I said to She in my head. 

“Try it. You’ll never know unless you fully tell her how you feel,” said She.

“Fuck this,” I thought to myself. She might be the only person I’d do this for. Although, I guess I was doing it for myself really. 

“It really scared me to see that strange guy with you yesterday afternoon,” I said. “You told me years ago that you’d only introduce me to a new guy after you knew them a while. You said you’d do that because some of your past boyfriends have been angry and threatening. I could feel the anxiety immediately yesterday.”

“I have known this guy for a while in NA. He’s harmless.”

“So you’ve never gotten high with this guy?,” I asked. 

“That’s none of your business, Hailey!”

“Yes it is! If you bring these guys into our family, it is my business!”

“Why are you making things so hard on me?,” my mom said. “You’re so angry. I should take you back to the hospital.”

I was quiet for a minute or two. “Good luck getting them to keep me in the hospital.” 

“You have to at least take that new medication,” my mom said. 

“How do you know about that? Did you talk to the psychiatrist from last night?,” I asked. 

“Yes. I called the hospital since you never called me back.” 

“Isn’t that against my privacy?,” I said. 

“They said they can tell a parent in an emergency,” my mom said. 

“It wasn’t an emergency! You made it an emergency! The school made it an emergency! None of you fucking listen to me!”

“I don’t know how to deal with this anymore!,” my mom said. She started crying. This was usually how these conversations ended with my mom. She starts crying and she’s the victim. 

“You need to keep talking, more calmly,” said She.

“Don’t you see? She doesn’t listen to me. There’s no point telling her how I feel. It’s all about how she feels!,” I said in my mind. 

“Keep talking,” She said. 

“You don’t get it mom. I can’t keep doing this. I feel numb. I feel like I’m floating right now,” I said. 

“Tell her how it feels, softly,” She said.

“Do you know my boyfriend? Rob?,” I asked my mom.

Through her tears, she said, “Yea.”

“He wanted to dance with me the other night, and all I could think about was how alone I felt. I was in a room full of people and I felt alone. It’s like a feeling where you don’t think anyone will be able to take care of you, even though people are all around you. Rob and I have only kissed. He wants to do more but I can’t.” 

“What’s your point, honey?,” my mom asked. It wasn’t said in a mean way.

“You and I have always tried to survive things together. Dad. Bad boyfriends. Running out of electricity and rent. But, at some point, things leveled out. Things got better and you started acting distant, which meant we weren’t in it together any more. You don’t talk about dad. You don’t really want to talk about how I’m feeling. You just act overwhelmed all the time. I’ve been alone for a long time.” 

“Good job,” said She. 

My mom was quiet for a while. She had stopped crying, but now she looked mad. We didn’t talk for most of the rest of the car ride. Eventually, right before we returned home, she said,

“You needed a mother. You didn’t need someone that was just surviving.” 

“I don’t know what I needed, but I didn’t need the detached mom role,” I said. 

That was it for the car ride. My mom continued to look angry and didn’t say anything more. 

Ten

The next morning, my mom doubled down on me taking the medication prescribed by the psychiatrist at the hospital. She even threatened that I couldn’t live at home any longer if I didn’t take the medicine. I refused vehemently. I had looked up the medication online and my biggest concern was that it would somehow affect my dialogue with She. I looked at some of the message boards for Tulpas and some people claimed their antipsychotic medication muted out the voice*. 

My mom later threatened that she’d call school and let them know I wasn’t following treatment recommendations. This one struck some fear in me, but I decided I’d wait and see if she’d follow through. Then, that evening, she gave me a last chance to comply. She had the number for school dialed into her phone. I lied, and told her that I’d start taking the medication that night (my mom had already filled it at the pharmacy that day). I flushed the first pill down the toilet that night. 

The next day, I decided to tell the truth. If we were going to confront the issues in our relationship, I had to be honest on my side. After staring at me with angry eyes for a few seconds, she said curtly,

“You can tell your therapist about it tonight. If he says you have to take the medication, I’m calling the school tonight.” 

I had rescheduled my appointment with my therapist. Dr. Hill wasn’t mad that I missed my meeting. He wanted to know what happened and I gave him a pretty quick recap of that night. Then he asked,

“How have you felt about the issue with your mom? That she brought a strange man in the car and may be using again?”

“I actually had it out with her about that on the way home from school,” I said. 

“Wow! That hasn’t happened before, has it?”

“I had some help from my Tulpa,” I said with a slight smile. 

“Walk me through the conversation,” Dr. Hill said. 

I told him about my mom’s victim reaction and how I kept with it by explaining my disconnection with people. I told him my mom was pretty angry. 

“She may have absorbed more of that message than you think she did,” Hill said. 

“I think she absorbed some of it. But I honestly don’t think she can take care of herself, let alone me.” 

“That may be true. How does that feel for you?”

I wanted to block out the emotional reaction. I was tired of battling all of these emotions and I was worried this was going to bring back a major depression. I could feel tears forming in my eyes. I looked away to try to regain composure.

“It’s okay to feel what you’re feeling, Hailey,” said Hill. 

“Goddamn it!,” I said to She in my mind. “He’s going to keep pushing.” 

“I imagine you’re hurt and angry, Hailey,” said Hill. 

The tears were running down my face at this point. Why did he have to keep saying my name?

I responded, “I’m angry, but I’m also just tired of having to interact with her. It’s exhausting. I’d do better if I could just focus on my school work and everyone would leave me alone. It’s a lot easier to just interact with my Tulpa.”

Hill leaned forward. “You’re wanting to push people away. That’s been the best way of protecting yourself in the past. But the depression is the result of missing out on your need to connect. And pushing people away only feeds the trauma. It keeps confirming the false idea that you’ll be hurt by everybody in your life.” 

“I haven’t been depressed or anxious since She arrived. Maybe I don’t need real people in my life. Didn’t you tell me at the beginning of our therapy work that we have to have a core sense of worth inside ourselves? She represents that part of myself.”

“But She’s not an integrated part of your identity. If it was you alone saying positive things about yourself, it’d be a different story. But the presence of the Tulpa – this separate part of yourself – suggests that there’s work to do to ultimately know this about yourself intrinsically.” 

“I don’t really understand all of that. But I think I know what you mean.” I paused for a bit and sank into my chair as much as I could. “So, what? You want me to keep talking to my mom?”

“I don’t know what you need to do, Hailey. At a minimum, we need to help you stay with the feelings of anger and hurt and figure out what those feelings are trying to say. Can you try to put words to that anger and hurt?”

I had had enough and I knew that the session was almost over. “I can’t right now, Dr. Hill.” 

“Ok. That’s fine. I want you to try to notice those times when the feelings are strong this week. If you can write out what those feelings mean, that’d be great. Or if you want to just have a dialogue in your head, that’d work too. We should probably stop for now.” 

Eleven

As I drove home from my appointment, I couldn’t shake the frustration toward everyone for pushing me to get better. 

She had been present and said, “They may not always act on it in the right way, but this is their way of trying to take care of you.”

“I feel like people are pushing their own agenda instead of understanding what I need,” I responded. “I want to run away. I’d be fine if you’re there.” 

“I need to go away for a while,” said She.

“What?!?”

“It’s time for me to stay in the background for a while. I’ll be there with you.”

“But you’re not going to talk to me?!? How would that work? Couldn’t I just call on you?”

“I won’t be responding for a while.”

“I don’t get it! If you’re part of me, why wouldn’t you respond?”

“You need to continue to communicate with people in our life and try to connect to people.” 

“How could you just leave? You’re abandoning me when I need you!” Tears were running down my face and I needed to pull over. 

“I’ll still be here. You can connect with this part of yourself and speak from this part of yourself when you need to.” 

“How’s that possible? You control when you respond. How am I supposed to control that part of myself?”

“It’s similar to all the other energy in the world. We don’t have full control but we can still connect with the energy that’s there.” 

“That’s real clear!,” I said sarcastically. “You can’t leave! I can’t do this alone! I’ll go back into my depression.” 

“If you do, we’ll talk again. But I don’t think you will,” She said.

“Wait! I have things we need to talk about.”

“Ok,” She said. “What should we finish talking about?”

“I can’t think of it right now! But there will be things!”

“Tell me when you have things to talk about. I’ll be there listening.”

I stared out the front windshield of the car. I was so disoriented. I didn’t understand why She would choose this moment to leave. Or at least to stop talking. This also meant that, technically, some part of me knew this was the right choice. 

It took a while to start driving home again. She was there, but I knew she wasn’t going to talk again. 

That afternoon, I started writing what I would say to She and I filled in what I thought her response would be. Interestingly, I felt like I was pretty good at guessing what She would say. 

Later that evening, I found my mom sitting on top of a picnic table we had in our backyard. I walked up and sat on the bench on one side. 

After sitting in silence for a few minutes, my mom said, “I think Grandma is going to move in for a few weeks.”

“All the way from Ohio?,” I said. 

“Yea.” 

“That’s good. We need some help.” My mom looked at me with a little grin in response. 

The fall breeze ran through the dry leaves of the tree. The sun painted oranges and reds across the sky. The first feeling of winter was in the breeze. 

My mom said, “Did you know that this time of year is supposed to be the time when ghosts and spirits are most present?”

“Wait. What did you say?,” I asked. 

“What? It’s just a folk lore.” 

The cylinder clicked into place in my mind. “You’re my mom’s voice!,” I said internally to She.

She actually responded. “Yes,” She said. “I started as a version of your mom’s voice. Your mom has tried. There have been moments of pure love. Do you remember your mom’s song in your nursery?”

Suddenly, I had the clearest memory of my pink nursery in our apartment when I was 2 or 3. My mom would rock me in a big, overstuffed blue rocking couch chair. I could remember my mother singing:

Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my darling, Hail-ey

You’re so pretty and we love you, oh my darling, Hail-ey

Mommy loves you, so does Daddy, you’re the best thing in the world

We’ll love you forever, my sweet baby girl.

Tears ran down my eyes. 

“Are you crying?,” my mom asked. 

“Yea. But’s it’s okay. We need to get better, mom. okay?”

My mom was crying now, too. “We’ll be okay, honey.” 

It was a long, long time until I heard She’s voice again. Though, I was getting better at taking her perspective for myself. During stressful times, it was harder to imagine her voice and I’d write out conversations between us. She was a protector for me, until I realized my mom had that in her, too. 

I stayed connected with the Tulpa community online. Many of them understood my experiences better than others. Eventually, I even started talking exclusively to one of the men in the community. We are planning to meet in person soon. Dr. Hill will be happy that I’m trying to connect. So will She, and so will my mom. 

*Note: A low dose of a medication that is traditionally used as an antipsychotic can be used adjunctively with an antidepressant to battle a more stubborn depression. 

If you’re interested in a real-world expansion on the topic of Tulpas, check out this episode from the excellent podcast “Reply All” here.