The Inside-Out

Why the voices in your head might be more real than you think

I’m staring at this blank document, wondering how to tell you about the most important relationships of my life without sounding completely barmy. Because here’s the thing - I’ve been talking to invisible friends for over fifty-six years. Not one friend - two. And understanding the difference between them has been the journey of my lifetime.

The first I met when I was seven, the day I chose to follow Jesus. I didn’t know His name then, but I felt His presence - gentle, loving, always calling me toward truth. A voice that whispered love when the world shouted performance.

The second I created when I was eight, hiding under a staircase at my fourth primary school in as many years. His name is Alex Quentin, and he promised to handle everything the real me was too scared to face. Alex was confident where I was timid, charming where I was awkward, successful where I felt like a failure.

For decades, I listened to both voices. Holy Spirit whispering about love and surrender and the narrow road. Alex shouting about achievement and pleasure and proving my worth through worldly success.

Guess which one I chose to follow most often?

Right now, as I type these words at sixty-four years old, I can finally tell the difference. It took two heart attacks, a quadruple bypass, and the collapse of my business to learn that one voice was always there because I belonged to Him, and the other I created because I was afraid to trust the first.

The staircase at Bidborough Primary was my refuge. A cramped space barely big enough for a skinny eight-year-old, but it was mine. I’d wedge myself in there during lunch breaks, using my satchel as a pillow, hiding from another playground where I knew nobody and nobody knew me.

Fourth school in as many years. Mum had a penchant for moving house and redecorating, or at least that’s how it seemed to me. Dad got promoted and we upgraded because, well, that’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? But that meant new schools, new teachers, new kids who’d already formed their little groups and had no interest in making room for the weird new boy with the funny accent.

I’d given up trying to make friends. What was the point? We’d only move again when Dad got his next promotion or Mum decided she didn’t like the wallpaper.

“You alright under there, love?” Mrs. Henderson, the dinner lady, crouched down to peer at me through the gap. She had kind eyes and smelled like shepherd’s pie.

“Just reading,” I mumbled, holding up a book I wasn’t actually reading.

“Right then. But if you need owt, you know where I am.”

I waited until her footsteps faded before letting the book fall to my lap. The words had been swimming anyway, blurred by tears I was too proud to let fall properly.

Why do they always move us? I thought desperately. Why can’t we just stay somewhere? Why don’t I fit in anywhere?

That’s when I felt it again. That presence I’d first encountered a year earlier when I’d knelt by my bed and asked Jesus into my heart. Not dramatic or mystical, just... real. A voice that wasn’t quite a voice, coming from somewhere deeper than my thoughts.

“You’re not alone, you know. You never have been.”

I looked around the cramped space. Nobody there. Just me and the dust bunnies and the faint smell of floor polish.

I know You’re there, I whispered in my mind. But it still hurts.

“I know it does. I’m here in the hurt with you.”

And that should have been enough. That gentle presence, that voice of unconditional love. But eight-year-old me was tired of being gentle. Tired of being sensitive. Tired of being the weird kid who talked to God and got picked on for it.

So I did something that would shape the next fifty-six years of my life.

I created someone else.

I need to be braver, I thought. I need someone who can handle this.

And just like that, Alex Quentin was born. Not from God, but from my own desperate need to be someone else. Someone confident. Someone who could fight back. Someone who wouldn’t hide under staircases.

“What should I call you?” I asked that night, staring at the ceiling of my new bedroom in our new house that still smelled like fresh paint and wallpaper paste.

“Call me Alex. Alex Quentin. That sounds properly brave, doesn’t it?”

“Alex Quentin,” I repeated, testing the name. It did sound brave. It sounded like someone who wouldn’t cry when kids laughed at his accent. Someone who could stand up to bullies. Someone who could make friends and keep them.

“That’s me. And when things get tough, when you need to be stronger than you feel, just let me handle it. Deal?”

“Deal.”

What I didn’t understand then - wouldn’t understand for decades - was that I’d just created my first alter ego. Holy Spirit was still there, still whispering love and truth and calling me toward the narrow road. But now I had another voice, one that promised shortcuts to acceptance, success through performance, confidence through achievement.

Alex was more fun. Alex got results. Alex didn’t ask me to trust or surrender or wait on God’s timing.

But Alex also led me into car crashes, broken relationships, and a lifestyle that nearly killed me. Because Alex was never real - he was just my rebellion against Holy Spirit’s loving guidance, dressed up as confidence.

Over the next few weeks, something remarkable happened. I started doing better at school. Not because the work got easier, but because I had Alex cheering me on.

When I got a gold star for my story about a boy who could talk to animals, Alex was there celebrating with me.

“See? You’re brilliant. You just needed to show them what you’re made of.”

But underneath Alex’s celebration, I could feel that gentler presence - Holy Spirit - whispering something different: “You’re creative because I made you that way. You don’t need gold stars to prove your worth.”

When the bigger boys called me names at break time, Alex would whisper strategies: “Fight back. Show them you’re not weak. Make them respect you.”

But Holy Spirit’s voice was quieter, harder to hear: “Walk away in love. They’re hurting too. You don’t need their approval.”

Guess which voice I chose to follow?

I even tried talking to some kids at break time. Sarah from my class was sitting alone, reading.

“What’s your book about?” I asked, channeling Alex’s confidence.

“Horses,” she said, not looking up.

“I like horses. I’m going to have one someday,” Alex said through me.

She looked at me then. “Really? What kind?”

And we talked. Actually talked. About horses and books and how her family moved a lot too because her dad was in the army.

“See?” Alex said later. “You can make friends when you’re confident. You just needed me to show you how.”

But Holy Spirit whispered something different: “You connected because you were authentic about your pain. Love recognises love.”

The fracture was beginning. Two voices, two paths, two ways of seeing the world. One calling me toward love and surrender and trusting God’s plan. The other promising control and success and proving my worth through performance.

For the next fifty-six years, I would listen to both. But increasingly, I chose Alex’s way. Because Alex’s way seemed to work faster. Alex’s way got immediate results. Alex’s way felt like winning.

Until it nearly killed me.

But that night, I heard Mum and Dad talking downstairs. Loud talking that was not the same as arguing, although it totally was. Sounded like another move was on the cards.

I buried my face in my pillow and cried. All that progress, all that hope, and it was going to be ripped away again. Sarah would forget about me. Mrs. Henderson would find some other lost kid to worry about. And I’d be back to square one in another new school, another new town where nobody knew my name.

“Alex?” I whispered into the darkness.

“I’m here. And I’ll always be here. We’ll show them at the next school too. We’ll be even better, even stronger.”

But underneath Alex’s bravado, I could feel that other presence - Holy Spirit - offering something different: “I’ll never leave you, John Michael. No matter how many times they move you, no matter how many new schools or new houses or new towns. I’ll always be here. You are loved exactly as you are.”

Two promises. Two presences. Two paths forward.

I chose to listen to both, but follow mostly one.

And that made all the difference.

Sitting here now, sixty-four years old and finally beginning to understand the deeper truth of those relationships, I realise something that would have blown eight-year-old me’s mind: I really did have two invisible friends.

One was the Holy Spirit of the living God, who had been with me since the day I invited Jesus into my seven-year-old heart. The voice of unconditional love, calling me toward truth and surrender and the abundant life found only in Him.

The other was Alex Quentin - my created alter ego, my worldly wise guide who promised success and admiration and all the pleasures this fallen world could offer. The voice of performance and achievement, calling me toward the wide road that leads to destruction.

For decades, I couldn’t tell the difference. Both voices felt real. Both seemed to care about me. Both offered guidance and companionship.

But only one was actually there because I belonged to Him. The other I created because I was afraid to trust the first.

Holy Spirit whispered: “Come as you are. You’re already loved. Trust Me with your life.”

Alex shouted: “Become who they want. Earn your place. Take control of your destiny.”

Guess which one felt more satisfying to follow? Yeah, the one where it was about me taking control. Humans are weird like that.

The invisible friends were both real - but in completely different ways. One was my inheritance as a child of God. The other was my rebellion against that inheritance, dressed up as wisdom.

Everything that followed - the achievements and the crashes, the success and the failures, the heart attacks and the healing - can be understood through this lens: Which voice was I following? Holy Spirit calling me toward the narrow road of surrender? Or Alex driving me down the wide road of worldly success?

Here’s what I wish I could tell that eight-year-old boy hiding under the stairs: You don’t need to create someone else to handle your life. The God of the universe already lives inside you, or will be the second you accept Jesus as your Lord and saviour. His voice is enough. His love is enough. You are enough, exactly as you are.

But I couldn’t hear that then. The fracture had begun, and it would take fifty-six years, two heart attacks, and the collapse of everything I’d built to finally learn the difference between the voice of love and the voice of performance.

The question isn’t whether God speaks to you. The question is whether you can tell the difference between His voice and the alter ego you’ve created to handle what you’re afraid to trust Him with.

Tonight, before you go to sleep, try something. Instead of just thinking your thoughts, try having a conversation. But listen carefully. Not just for any voice, but for the one that sounds like unconditional love. The one that calls you beloved before you’ve done anything to earn it. The one that whispers truth even when it’s not what you want to hear.

Because here’s what I’ve learned after fifty-six years of conversation: Your invisible friend might be the most real thing about you. But make sure you’re listening to the right one.

Everything else is just details.

Next, in “Behind the Mask”, I’ll tell you about the lies we believe about ourselves, and how a six-year-old learned he wasn’t worth taking along...