You are one of the most well-nourished monsters in my life. It feels as if you have rooted yourself in my system at a cellular level, and through your many disguises I often realize far too late that it’s you.
You used to be known as the gnawer. In retrospect, you poured a biting sauce over every dialogue and rolled me into a downward spiral of perfectionism and doubt. The final verdict was always the same: if only I were smarter, faster, prettier, or wittier, then surely I’d be happier.
I endlessly chewed on negative thoughts and sank my teeth into the mission of transforming myself into the most perfect version of me. Miss Perfectionist was born.
Together, the two of you turned out to be a golden duo.
Later, you revealed yourself as the inner judge, hurling merciless judgments. You bombarded me with advice, which Miss Perfectionist diligently translated into endless to-do lists and lofty resolutions. Another new project!
Running on empty, I pressed on, clutching my five- and ten-year plans, my gaze fixed on infinity. Four years ago, I stumbled headlong into a free fall.
I was given the chance to rebuild myself, and I seized it with both hands.
In moments of silence, I finally discovered who you were. You are the voice from outside, that has taken root in me like stubborn weeds. The voice of the bully, the meddler, the jealous friend, or the dominant family member. Your voice was shaped by the voices around me, which in turn were shaped by the fears of others. I am learning to dissect your messages. Whose voice still echoes in your reproaches, whose perspective colors your judgment? And why is it that a certain message hits such a raw nerve? I’ve come to see that criticism only hurts when I already believe it myself. When I’m convinced that I’m not smart enough, a sarcastic joke about my intelligence feels like a slap in the face.
Your voice teaches me to listen. To listen to myself. What pressing untruths lie buried deep within my consciousness? You are the shovel that helps me dig toward the roots of my drive. When I’ve gathered my courage and dare to look into the gaping hole you’ve left behind, I stare my fear straight in the eye. I no longer recoil. Because I know that when I dare to pull fear out by the root, love has more space to grow.
Aca
Self-criticism