This piece, like many others before it, began with a long, contemplative stare at an empty page.
It can be tough to know where to begin. The very fact that I’m writing in the first place indicates that I probably need to work through something. That’s usually the way it goes; whether I’m frustrated, or confused, or lonely, I retreat to my journal and air my troubles there. Then I turn around and share that with the entire world. What does that say about me?
I would tell you that it comes from a desire to be helpful, if I can be, to anyone who may be dealing with the same kinds of intrusive thoughts and heated inner dialogues as I am. The amount of mental energy I dedicate to useless self-loathing and over-the-top self-critique is staggering. If you could read my mind, you’d be appalled. What you’re getting now is the heavily-edited version of those thoughts. Like I said, if you could read my mind…
Trust me on that one.
Now, someone else might say that my forthcoming attitude toward publicly sharing very intimate details of my mind-state comes from a desire for attention. I suppose that, on some level, that’s true. I don’t entirely lack self-awareness. There is a part of me that likes to feel seen. I think that’s normal.
Whether or not you believe it, though, the truth—my version of it—is that I’m motivated by a desire to help others avoid the traps that I myself have fallen into time and time again. I don’t believe that anyone really knows what they’re doing. In fact, I’d be shocked if anyone did. I, personally, operate every day with such a profound lack of direction that I may as well be wearing a blindfold. Up until now, I’ve managed to keep putting one foot in front of the other, but I can’t imagine that anyone has it all figured out. All I can do is make note of the things that have provided me with clarity (of which there have been a few) and the things that haven’t (of which there have been a lot). There may be a purpose or meaning to life, and there may not be, but either way, if my insights can make the process of figuring it out a little bit easier for someone else, then it will always be worth sharing. It’s up to you, as a reader, to decide whether or not my thoughts have any value. All I can do it put them out there.
Perhaps the fact that I feel the need to qualify my opinion at all—to justify my decision to share it—is a sign of insecurity. It must say something about me, since every decision we make does. In truth, I am insecure. I’m not afraid to admit that. I can’t speak for anyone else, but, at least in some ways, it seems like most people are.
It feels good to be honest. I suppose there’s no real reason to be insecure, since, as I mentioned earlier, no one seems to have any idea what they’re doing. As far as I can tell, there’s no “right” way to go about living. Of course, it’s important to treat people with kindness and respect. If we don’t, then the facade of society falls away, and we’re revealed as the animals that we are. Beyond that, though? Who’s to say what way is “best?” Anything that requires qualification is inherently a judgement call, and that’s entirely subjective anyway. Why should I be insecure when I don’t even know what “security” is? There’s no baseline for it. When I put it that way, it seems very silly.
Why are we so self-critical?
I don’t always set out to write with an objective in mind, but today I did. Usually—last week, for example—I begin to feel off-balance in some way, and I let my pen lead my back toward the center. Today, though I set out with a goal: to explore we tend to be so self-critical.
I like to give natural selection the benefit of the doubt when I can, since, despite the odds, my ancestors managed to pass their genes this far. Therefore, most of what I am probably has some purpose, seeing as I’m just another link in the chain. For example, despite being unpleasant, certain anxieties function positively. Anxiety about my health means I exercise regularly and eat well. Social anxiety and/or the fear of being seen as unreliable means I give my best effort at work and try not disappoint people in my personal life (I would imagine that evolutionary pressure stems from the need to fit into a tribe in an environment where being cast out meant you likely would not survive).1 In the same way that my ancestors’ fear of entering a dark cave alone meant that they didn’t get eaten by a bear, my own anxieties protect me from certain adverse situations and behaviors.
For the life of me, however, I can’t imagine how the intense self-loathing and disgust I so often feel is in any way useful for my survival. I’m shackled by it. I know that I could accomplish so much more if I could just free myself of the constant judgement, but I haven’t yet been able to. I waste so much energy every day fending off this enormous, terrible creature. I’m in it’s jaws, and if I don’t make a concentrated effort to free myself from it, I’ll be devoured. It impacts every facet of my life. I want so desperately to know what it feels like to walk unencumbered.
I don’t know why it’s so hard to be kind to myself. I can show compassion to almost every other creature on this earth. I can love anyone else. But I pass judgement on myself where I never would on others: for thoughts, impulses, and desires that are entirely beyond my conscious control. Perhaps we judge ourselves for these things because we’re the only ones who see them. After all, you can never know what someone else is really thinking, but you’re always acutely aware of your own thoughts.
Judging yourself for your thoughts is like judging a river for the debris flowing through it.
After all, you’re not compelled to act on them. I’m not a jerk for being angry that my dog pooped all over the kitchen; I’m a jerk if I act on that anger. The ability to deliberate and choose how to proceed is what makes us human. And even beyond that, we owe ourselves the grace to make mistakes and learn from our self-destructive decisions (within reason, of course).
But alas. I know there’s no use in berating myself for craving junk food, blowing off social engagements, or putting off work, but I do it anyway. I’m aware that my value as a person doesn’t depend on looking like Michelangelo’s David, having a million friends, or finishing every assignment ahead of time. I just need to be myself and treat people with kindness. But even as my hand writes these words, I can’t get myself to fully believe them. My heart won’t go where my brain tells it to- and that is incredibly frustrating.
Treat yourself with the same compassion you show to others.
The golden rule says that we should treat others the way we want to be treated. But the inverse is true as well: if we treat others with kindness, then we ought to be kind to ourselves. I know from experience that’s easier said than done.
- It’s important to note that, since I’m human, I fall short of these ideals all of the time- as everyone else does. ↩︎
