by Rebekah Christensen
DISCLAIMER: Any similarities to persons living or dead, especially those named Reginald, are unintentional.
I call my inner critic Reginald, it helps to give the voice a name. And no, he definitely does not sound anything like my dad, why do you ask?
I do try to hear him out since he is part of me. We’ve had some long chats, Reggie and I, over just about every hot beverage you can imagine. Recently, I imagined sipping my Mexican hot chocolate demurely across from Reginald in his usual plum cravat. While listening to his tirade, my drink burned my tongue with heat and spice as strong as the scathing retorts Reggie shot my way.
No one likes what you write! A slap across the face.
Every word you write is pedantic at best! A sabre hilt to the temple.
Your research is a sham! I see a thesis committee saying, “Let’s table this and circle back in a year.”
And your imagery stinks of desperation! A purple mermaid beached on a refuse heap instead of the emerald lagoon it has been her whole life, gasping piteously below cloud-ringed volcanoes.
You only prove my point. And he crosses his arms, the conversation over. My mug is as empty as my notebooks or laptop. For some reason, he only ever drinks whiskey, which disappears as quickly as my confidence.
Once, at the advice of a writing teacher, I held up my hand in the middle of his tirade. Shocked, he paused long enough for me to ask, “Why do you only tear me down?”
Quietly, he replied, I don’t want to tear you down; I want you to see how you can improve and build the legacy you picture.
“I don’t want to be a famous writer or anything,” I told him. “You can cool the jets and be constructive more often!”
My dear, you want to be a teacher. For your students, yes, but also for anyone you meet. Especially your children. And what is a teacher? One who helps others become better. I work to lift you to heights you daren’t dream of, allowing you to lift others to those heights.
I remember feeling shocked, discovering Reginald’s benign motivation. The writing session I had after that flowed from thought to finger to page like a garden fountain. Whenever Reggie noticed something to improve, the advice came with grandfatherly care. Perhaps we can rearrange these clauses? But later – first, let’s finish the draft.
But since then, and especially recently, I have felt no warmth or help in his incessant voice. I can do nothing right. At my park with my sons? I’m not engaging with them “right.” Teaching my students? I’m failing to instruct them properly; I am setting them up to fail. I feel the crunch of eggshells and broken glass beneath my feet all day. This part of myself has become my personal adversary.
This is my second attempt in three days to express my relationship with this critic I carry around in my head. The first attempt ended with a sucker punch to gut that I hadn’t seen coming. Reginald went straight for my heart and provided a laundry list of my endless failures as a mother. I can’t even repeat the slightest sin among them. Know only that tears leapt into my eyes, and I pushed my laptop onto the floor. Yesterday was for healing, though if I’m honest, my healing was more about pretending those awful things hadn’t come from me. This critic is separate from my true self.
Why do I fight myself? I’ve anthropomorphized this part of me, but I know that I am the one aiming shots right at the secure joints of my mainmast, leaving me with too much rebuilding to do amidst the doldrums of fear. I’ve worked hard to love myself and be the first person in my corner as I am for my dearest friends. Yet I still have this voice whisper or scream at just the right moment to leave me deflated at best, depressed and anxious at worst.
I don’t know if this looks monumental – the fact that I am writing a second attempt about these awful things I think about myself two days after such a devastating blow. But this has never happened before! I take weeks to recover from Reginald’s victories. Having the goal to get this blog post up added some grit to my stance, and I faced off against his perfectly coifed salt-and-pepper hair. I went to war in the only way that made sense. I took the negative things he screamed and turned them on their head. Most importantly, I wrote them down:
- I am a good mom. Great even!
- I know how to draft, revise, and edit with an audience in mind – therefore, yes, I can write well.
- I am kind, understanding, and empathetic.
- No, I’m not perfect and don’t do things perfectly, and guess what, Reggie? THAT IS FINE.
- Right now, I can’t say that I am selfless, especially when I compare myself to the woman I want to be one day. But I know I move farther from selfishness every day.
- I concede at times I have fled an opportunity to help someone, fearful of messing up before the attempt. There are too many of those times. Regret hurts like a meat hook in my shoulder. But I have to get off that hook, heal, keep moving, keep learning from those mistakes.
- I love my loved ones SO deeply! If I love someone, they know it in their bones because I tell them and show them.
- Sure, I don’t finish everything I start or maintain each healthy habit, BUT someone I dearly love and trust once called me the Queen of Consistency because I always get back on my feet with renewed effort.
- I can also think of TONS of things I could’ve done for my relationship with Dad. But even with him gone, I’m still doing what I can. So back off, Reggie!
- I am too creative! I write across genres! I write poetry! And look at my sourdough! Yes, my fingers still fumble over the French knot while embroidering, but that’s one out of how many stitches? And sometimes, I can even draw if the Muse descends.
I think that’s my limit for parrying Reginald’s thrusts today, I feel like I just sprinted down the block. I’m sure he’ll return the second I publish this post. In fact, I hear the distinct crack of a shifting fault line deep below my feet. Please let me know what you do when your inner critic gets too loud! I’d love to try some different strategies.