We all have one, that voice in our heads that questions our choices, criticizes our actions, and constantly reminds us that we need to “stay in our lane.”
Sometimes it is the whispiest of whispers and sometimes the shouting reverberates through our being. “WTF were you thinking, you moron?” But, for me at least, it is always there waiting to intrude even if it is silenced for the moment.
On the very best of days, when someone has admired my shoes, or given me a compliment, or I’ve won the Big Prize (however I define it) the voice is quick to remind me that I don’t really deserve the praise OR the prize. “It was just luck,” or “yeah you fooled everyone, this time.” “Just wait until they find out you don’t know what you are doing,” is one of my least favorites.
Recently I read an article by Brooke Warner that suggested that I should name my inner critic. Maybe I should give her a face and try to understand her. Yes, she’s a girl. The mean girl from junior high school. Everybody had one, even the mean girls.
Just for fun I decided I would turn and face her down for once. Ask her what the heck her problem was. Tell her to f**K off, maybe. But it didn’t really turn out that way. She wasn’t all that scary, although she was definitely intimidating.
Turns out she looks a lot like me, only better. She is the thinner, younger, perkier, smarter, kinder, funnier, prettier me. It also turns out she doesn’t hate me, after all. She’s just looking out for me. She is hovering over me like a helicopter parent trying to make sure I don’t do anything to embarrass myself. “Don’t raise your hand, you might have the wrong answer,” or “What if you try for that better job and don’t get it, you’ll be disappointed.” Her advice is always for my own good.
Since I started to get to know her, she is a little easier to tolerate. I realized she isn’t always right. Sometimes I listen to what she has to say and decide that it is one of the times she is wrong. Sometimes I think she is right and do what she says, and occasionally she is right and I don’t listen to her anyway, just because I can.
When I get discouraged by her criticism, I try to remember she thinks she is doing something good for me. She loves me, I think. And I am doing my best to love her, if not to always listen to her. It is like I have little invisible earbuds playing Billie Eilish on extra loud and I just nod and smile as Sylvia natters on. Oh yeah, her name is Sylvia.
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