I've always heard voices.
When I was a kid, I mentioned to my mom that I heard them whispering in my ear. She hushed me up in the way you might quiet someone when you're afraid they might be committed for what they are saying.
Sometimes they scared me.
Like the time I stayed home from church on a Sunday morning when I was five or six. I had a fever. I snuck into my favorite room in the house—one that I didn't often get access to: my father's office. In the quiet of the house, I laid on the floor and looked up into the sanctuary-style ceiling, which was made out of dark, knotty pine. The shapes in the pine turned into faces, and they began to whisper to me. I couldn't make out the words, but I thought God was angry at me, so I rushed out of the room in fear. I didn't love that room as much after that.
Sometimes they reassured me
When my life was scary, the voice(s) would tell me things like, "It's okay. You've always got us." I still didn't know what the voice was at that point, but it had been there for all these years—and I hadn't been committed by that point—so I'd grown to trust it and find comfort in it.
It took a while to be able to actually hear what the whispers were saying.
This was sort of frustrating. I thought it was a really important message, and one day I heard something really mundane and directive: "Go to sleep." I was about eight at the time, and going to sleep was not interesting.
Over the years, though, this voice has worked through me in different ways. Now it comes out, most often, in writing. Maybe it's my guides or my muses or my soul. When I was a teenager, I thought of it sort of like my higher—or my real—self. But to try to define what it is would be to cheapen it, in a way. I don't call it anything. But when I write, this is the voice I channel.
This is what the voice brings you. If it's for you, you'll know. That's all I'm saying right now.