Towards a kinder self
Words & images © Paul Ransom
You’ve heard it all before, and likely will again. That nagging voice in your head. The one that thinks you are a fraud, a failure, unworthy. The voice that loves to remind you how inept you are. The part of you that wants to destroy you.
Almost all of us have an inner critic, a super-sceptic that does not buy our bullshit. Perhaps, like mine, yours is a tyrant. Cool. Insistent. A weaponiser of blunt data. A prosecuting attorney arguing with icy force that if only I truly believed what I said – and had any guts – I would end it. As he would say, just being here is proof of cowardly complicity in a pointless, self-deluding charade. The flimsy fabric of identity, he likes to remind me, is a cocktail of fantasy and denial. Moreover, a vale of suffering.
Indeed, he would be scoffing at me now for writing this; except that we recently called a truce. Here then, with his cooperative assent, our story – one that we hope will help some of you find a more productive way of working with your inner critic.
First, some context.
After many years of relative quiet, my critic voice swung into hyperdrive two months ago. It was triggered by a triple whammy. Initially, there was the new technology. Rather, my short sighted struggles with it. The sense that I was wasting money and time pursuing a foolish dream. Second, there was the looming prospect of an upcoming solo trip overseas, where low vision and language barriers were starting to become a source of encroaching anxiety. Lastly, amplifying everything, another rejection letter; this time from a literary agent who had said that he loved my book, but…
Even though I was prepared for the likelihood of all three, I was soon overwhelmed by the ferocity of the critic voice’s response. In a flash, he was on me, pounding me with heavy artillery. It felt like I had regressed to the bad old days. Esteem on the floor. Loathing dialled up to eleven. The case for running and hiding, the narcotic lure of suicide, no longer safely contained.
For a while I watched it. Allowed it. Where was this going? What was this really about? Then, after six weeks of punitive drone, the calming intervention – which is the real point of this post.
We will all occasionally fall foul of self-eviscerating narratives. They can be a distortion, a distracting drama, fuelling a toxic complex of beliefs and behaviours that can have ongoing adverse impacts on ourselves and those we love. The key question is how we best respond.
The critic is not always wrong.
Despite a tendency to overstate, and to lace their observations with corrosive mockery and insult, our critic voices should not be silenced or censored. Punishing the punisher is not the best way forward.
Beneath the scathing tone there are messages worth hearing. In addition, though the voice may ‘sound’ rational, its intention may be to communicate a feeling, often a fear. The use of derision is sometimes an attention seeking gambit. Internal clickbait. Look here!
I was fortunate to discover this in my forties as a side effect of the standard issue mid-life meltdown. (Yes, a younger woman was involved, but no sports car.) Thus, when the critical megaphone clicked back into gear a few weeks ago, I was not about to shut it down. Indeed, I predicted the script. What I did not accurately surmise was ‘the why’.
- There is a popular school of thought, (much of it couched in spiritually correct, pop-psych platitudes), which would have us believe that this voice is entirely negative, an awful inner demon to be exorcised. In my view, this is a dangerous and ideologically driven mantra of censorious control. Indeed, the compulsory positivity edicts of New Age ‘manifestors’ and their ilk represent yet another supposedly merit (virtue) based standard against which we can be measured. More on this later.
Thus, rather than brush it off or return fire, I took notes. Observed the patterns. Entered into dialogue. Tried to sift out exaggeration and unreasonable expectation. Crucially, I also endeavoured to identify aspects that were simply an internalised channel of external noise and judgement. Much of what our inner critic repeats is a distillation of what others have said; most notably, loved ones, authority figures, and peers, (not to mention the value bombardment of cultural messaging).
Here again, not intrinsically bad. The ‘other’ is more than just a judgemental nuisance – nor simply an existential mirror – but an emotional and ethical compass. Indeed, we echo-locate ourselves in a world of friends, foes and sundry community. Hyper-individualist tantrums and snide solipsist dismissal are therefore immature, possibly problematic responses to the shared reality we find ourselves in.
Each of us navigates complex internal and external terrain, upon which blunt force prescription and turning a blind eye rarely work long term. Thus, if your critic voice can sometimes be brutal and monochromatic, take a mental breath, try not to react with equal and opposite force, and start asking.
The critic thinks I’m a gutless, delusional imposter whose true superpowers are laziness and failure (and who needs to be cut down a peg or two).
Once triggered, my reinvigorated critic voice rolled out its regular litany of scolding pejorative; sounding much like a cynical, disbelieving parent, teacher or boss. An old loop, cycling through its repertoire of bruise-inflicting, zero-star ratings. Goading me to self-destruct.1
What made the barbs so cutting was that they were partly true. As ever, there was a ‘plausible undeniability’ about much of what the voice said.
Unsurprisingly, it knows that I know this. Soon, it will quote this paragraph back at me. Thereafter, we will likely engage in yet another self-talk tango, and he will remind me that he is only trying to keep my feet on the ground. Keep me focused. Real.
Sound like a bully? A predator? An abuser? I only do it cos I love you.
Yet, even here, there is reason to suspend judgement. Because it’s true – the voice does love me in a way. He wants me not to suffer. He is like a foul-mouthed, reality-checking Buddhist monk, one who sees clearly that self is suffering and, therefore, that self-nihilation is the end of such. “Release the dismal tension of ego striving,” he coaxes, with what I sense to be a strategically ambiguous smirk.
Yet, the critic did not prevail. (This time.) Furthermore, his six week blitzkrieg stopped. Not because he got bored or ran out of insults, but because we were not sidetracked by the rationalised edifice of his predictable talk points.
Instead, we referred the in-house critic to the resident therapist. The latter acts from the zoomed-out, bigger picture perspective. In my case, it functions as a dispassionate, yet compassionate observer. An on-board super-carer and self-coach. (Like Orna Guralnik from Couples Therapy, only in my head.) Many of you will have a similarly useful voice.
So, what did the shrink and the critic discuss? Essentially, the way we talk to ourself. Our tone and purpose. What, how, why…and is that really working for you?
- For a more detailed rundown of the 15 step self-talk approach I use – the Q&A Method – hit the link.
While the critic ranted, the therapist focused on asking the right questions, paraphrasing the answers, and stripping out drama and denial. In a word: listening. Truly, deeply listening.
How it all went down in my head.
We were taking our evening walk. The voice was hammering. I was starting to think ‘cracked’ thoughts. The drama was intensifying. Cue, the inner shrink. With surgical precision, but maximum care, she got right to the point.
Q: So, what are we really saying here?
A: That you’re a total fraud, a pathetic incompetent who—
Q: —Yes, we’ve heard all that before; but why now? Why do we need reminding?
A: Because you never learn.
Q: But we already know that much of that criticism is an internalised channel of external noise. It’s what others say, or what we imagine they say.
A: Well yeah, mostly.
Q: So, what’s behind this recent campaign? What’s got you so fired up?
Here, the critic voice paused. In the gap, the penny dropped. The torrid to and fro in my head had almost nothing to do with perceptions of failure or an inability to use gimbals.
Q: My sense is that you want us to know something. What is that?
A: I’m scared.
In that moment it became clear that the critic was voicing the concerns of a child. It was using rationalised adult language to express a childlike emotion. As I near 60, lose my eyesight, and more directly confront the prospect of incapacity and decline, the world is starting to loom as a less navigable, more frightening place. My prideful, independent, adventuring self may not care to admit this, but the critic/child was adamant.
Q: You’re right. The world and the future are uncertain. Our body is starting to crumble. Your fear is not entirely unreasonable. But what if we promise to look after you, and not to take stupid risks or pursue empty bucket list bullshit? Would that help?
A: We just don’t want you to strand us, or set us up to fail. We don’t want to feel any more vulnerable than we already do – just so you can pursue some ‘embracing the unknown’ fantasy.
As soon as the true bottom line was known, and acknowledged without opposition, weeks of escalating tension dissolved. Since then, equanimity. A more honest gaze. Less trying to hold back the tide of age and impress myself.
Although, intellectually, I already knew this, the recent skirmish in my head was more about feeling it. The child had employed critic weaponry to demolish my lingering resistance. It wanted emotional recognition, not just wordy agreement. Only when we feel it do we truly mean it. The child was seeking assurance that it was not going to be fobbed off with yet more adult lies.
By the end of the walk, it was as if a burden had been set down, and an old realisation was new again. Whatever happens now, I will be just as dead. Nothing I do, say or achieve will alter my deadness, nor will anything do much to prevent the accelerating process of decay. As for making a mark, leaving a legacy…vanity.
The blunt truth here is both revealing and liberating. Despite its occasional Buddhist utterings and Existentialist cool, it is clear that the critic, and the child it often represents, operate from ego. Their go-to tactic is drama, and their goal is control.
Yet, rather than be snooty about this, or worse, retreat into denial, I accept it. I am flawed, limited, dying, and sometimes afraid. Although I trust myself to problem solve and deal effectively with most things, I do not relish the further loss of eyesight, nor the incipient increase in decrepitude. From the child’s perspective, this cool explanation maps more like dread. Lost. Marooned in darkness. Crying out. Unheard. Unloved. Abandoned.2
My point here is that the way to make peace with the inner critic is not censorship or combativeness but taking the time to look beyond the surface of language – the insults, the unfavourable comparisons, etc – and to ascertain its purpose. As my in-house counsel says:
Does the name-calling help?
How do you imagine these tirades make us feel?
Is this our punishment for being ordinary?
Our critic voices may well speak grains of truth, but they are not above questioning. Likewise, we should not be beyond listening.
Perhaps you do not have as many channels in your head as I do, or maybe you have more; either way, the choir rarely sings the same song. Self is a complex, fluid phenomenon. We should not expect neat, storybook cohesion or linear, triumphal ‘progress’. Life is not a pass/fail exam. There is no perfect answer.
Which is why I prefer to focus on asking the best questions.
What do we truly want?
Rather than titillate you with lurid confession, the example above was intended to illustrate a process – a way of talking to yourself. Strip out the detail, and what remains is a contest of conflicting desires.
It is normal to want contradictory things. Novelty and predictability. Freedom and security. Attention and privacy. Likewise, we also tend to want highly improbable things. Perfect love. Ultimate knowledge. An idealised version of ourselves.
The last one is what gives the critic voice its impetus. It plots the graph of our shortfalls against the axes of perceived goodness – talent, looks, virtue, wisdom, et al. Eventually, most of us work out that these standards are distorted and unfair; largely a result of social radiation imbibed since childhood. Tempering or rejecting them is a no-brainer, but managing their continued influence requires closer attention. And much trickier questions.
What kind of person do I want to be?
And why?
Typically, we think of striving mantras as being focused on externals like socially visible achievement and group approval. After all, it is easy to measure ourselves against established markers, especially quantifiable ones like wealth and job title. But, as the notion of the individual (and the personal life) have increasingly taken centre stage, the arena of attainment has expanded to include more of the private and invisible.
In The Pointless Revolution (Everytime Press, 2019), I explained it thus:
A recent beer ad underscored the point, neatly encapsulating the fact that the competitive cult of cachet has wormed its way deep into our private lives. “Are you an experience collector?” it asked its audience.
The basic message is: if you’re the kind who won’t settle, who climbs mountains, visits exotic locales and ruggedly adventures, (as opposed to sitting at home watching beer ads on TV), then you’re our kinda guy.
Absurd though the advertiser’s pitch was, it was cynical genius, tapping into a substrata of fear and desire that few genuinely acknowledge. We have one shot at life. We had better make it count.
Imagine the horror of being on your death bed and thinking that your very life was not up to scratch. That you had failed at existence. Not travelled enough. Not shagged enough. Not had a sufficiently deep and meaningful epiphany that made neat sense of the whole messy shebang.
Like the ad creatives, the inner critic knows your weaknesses, and makes hay with your dread and insecurity. It will keep reminding you that you are not yet ‘the person you wish to be’ until you stop wishing. When you are fine as you are, the critic has less to say.
Yet, despite knowing this – and having written the above book about it – I fell again into the trap of trying to engineer the ‘better’ version of me. Of my life. It took six weeks of punishing laceration for me to re-learn the lesson.
What lesson?
Acceptance. Letting go.
Not as intellectual tick box, but as deeply felt release.
To critic, child, and adult, the message was clear. A welcome relief. A profound permission. It is okay not to be exceptional. To slow down. To prefer safety. To gently decline and leave not a trace. To be nothing at all.
Sentience is miraculous enough. It does not require lucrative publishing deals or elite neuro-plasticity to make it more so.
Our inner critics, and the various striving imperatives they channel, feed on fomo and lack. But the less we want, the less they have power.
Warning: don’t set yourself up to fail by insisting that you fully transcend desire.
If someone tells you they have transcended desire they are lying. Desire is central to Being, to what we experience as self and life. Perfectly avoiding it is not something you should try. Effectively disempowering striving mantras is more about expectation management than holiness.
In other words, be realistic. Most of all, be kind to yourself.3 You are not required to save the world, star in the movie, or smash those enlightenment goals. Perfection is neither compulsory nor attainable. But human frailty is inevitable.
The inner critic tracks our attitude to this. It voices our lack of acceptance. Reinforces unreasonable demands. Although it speaks uncomfortable truths, it tends to do so in unkind, largely unhelpful ways. It resembles a schoolyard bully or hellfire preacher, spouting immature either/or judgements and casting everything in dire, apocalyptic terms.
- A friend told me recently that when she was young, the critic voice was an adult but that now, in her mid-50s, it is a child. This may well be true for many of us.
Perhaps we are better advised to treat our critic voices as an internal social media feed – a doomscroll of decline, nostalgia, and dopamine triggering drama. In serious need of weeding.
Ultimately, I was able to trick the critic algorithm not with blunt force or bitchy comments, nor with denial and snobbery, but with time, focus, and compassion.
That nagging voice most likely has something of great import to tell us. Our challenge is to listen; and the best way to start listening is to start asking.
But remember – whatever happens – you will be no less dead. Same goes for those who judge. And whatever verdicts they pass, they too will be rendered irrelevant.
Maybe I’m wrong to think this article might help you. Perhaps the critic will laugh in my face. In the end, it’s all noise. Soon to be replaced by silence.
1: Here is a prime example of inner critic rant.
If you had any decency you’d already be dead. As for this article, which no one is ever gonna read, and this amateur-ville blogsite that no one gives a fuck about – which is apparently meant to cross-promote some half-arsed book you wrote that sold nothing and has nothing of any value to offer anyone…all of it proves what a waste of resources you are. Why don’t you just kill yourself now and spare us all the grinding poverty of this yawnsome self-theatre.
2: Those close to me will likely raise an eyebrow at the ‘abandoned’ confession. I have an acknowledged, almost unapologetic reputation for abandonment. People, projects, objects, belief systems, etc. The inner therapist was taking copious notes as I typed this.
3: What do we mean by ‘realistic’ and ‘kind’? Basically, balanced. Neither complacent nor punishing. Don’t give yourself a medal for waking up, but don’t whip yourself for taking a nap.
As If You Were Listening 