Dear Inner Critic

Dear Inner Critic, 

This is just a letter to say: You suck! I’m tired of your crap!

I know, I know, this may come as something of a surprise. You probably were here thinking this would be a love letter. That’s a fair assumption. For years I’ve treated you like a respected friend and confidant, nodding along at whatever you have to tell me. I mean I really listened to you! I’m sure that made you feel useful. 

To tell you the truth, you felt useful to me.

It’s weird to say that because you’re mean. So mean. Honestly, sometimes you’re downright abusive. 

 

Inner Critic, do you hear yourself? How could any of that vitriol be useful?

But I guess for a long time I thought you were trying to help. I thought you said these things to motivate me—

I thought you wanted to help me. I really believed you, every word you said. I trusted you. 

The thing is though, even when I listened to you and followed your plan, I could still never earn your approval. The goalposts always moved. No matter how much good I did, you could never be silenced. 

Do you even know how exhausting that was? I could never rest with you always telling me what I was lacking. 

And then, Inner Critic, something happened. I started talking to someone who showed me just how ugly you are. She told me that maybe I didn’t deserve to be talked to in this way. She pointed out other people in my life who don’t talk to me the same way you do. They actually say nice things about me. They think I’m pretty awesome. 

Why did I spend so long believing you over them?

I guess, looking back, I had some other influences in my life that tried to motivate me through criticism and disapproval and shame. Early ones, pervasive ones. I believed they had my best interests at heart, because what else could I believe at a young age? And I guess I assumed that negativity is a good way to motivate someone. Maybe the best way. 

But it really isn’t. I know that now. People don’t do well when they feel bad, and frankly, Inner Critic, you make me feel like shit most of the time. I actually think I would be doing better in all ways if you would shut the hell up sometimes. Or just, idk, learn to say something nice. 

Here’s the thing. I’ve always heard your voice—always—so I assumed it came from me. I assumed you were me, that you and I were one and the same, Inner Critic. But I’m slowly learning that you’re not me. Not at all. You’re more of an amalgamation of voices and influences, the old and deep ones, the ones I internalized before I had the ability to question them. You’ve been repeating and regurgitating their nonsense and bullshit and selling me on it every time, but I’m wising up. 

I have my own, deeper voice. It’s quieter and more subtle. I have to really strain to hear it sometimes. Probably because you’re a big loudmouth and like to talk over it. But it’s always there. 

I’ve done a lot of work on myself lately, Inner Critic. Most of it isn’t the work you’ve been telling me to do, because we both know it wouldn’t be good enough for you anyway. No, I’ve actually been listening to that deeper voice and doing what it suggests instead. Stuff like—finding enjoyment in small things, letting mistakes go, acting in defiance of my fears instead of in subordination to them. 

It wasn’t easy to do at first. It’s still not easy, but as I practice it more I’m getting better. I’m learning to tune into the frequency of that deeper, sweeter voice that’s more like the real me. The more I do, the more you sound harsh and buzzy in my ear. It’s not a good sound. You should get that checked out.

Here’s the part where I would sign off, and maybe if you were a real person and I was better with boundaries I would say “bye forever, lose my number!” before blocking you. I can’t do that because you literally live rent-free inside my brain. But maybe I can downsize you. You’ve been occupying a mansion in there and honestly you’re better suited to a studio. Maybe a tent. Maybe just, like, a sleeping bag. We can work on that. 

I guess you’ll always be a part of me. Some things are too deeply rooted to excise completely. But that’s okay. You’ve helped make me who I am. Not because you are the motivating influence I thought you were. Nor because you’re some kind of omniscient superpower. You’re not those things, you’re just… the residue of an old belief system I’ve left behind. You’re a tape-recorded voice from the past, a tired messenger with only ancient history to repeat.

But you’re my history, the path I had to walk to get to where I am now. I wouldn’t have chosen you, but I didn’t get to choose. I can only choose how much of you I listen to. And these days, that’s less and less. 

No hard feelings, okay?

Enjoy your sleeping bag, sorry about the mansion.

Love, Tori