Living and Learning...
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My husband gives me a blank look, a not uncommon reaction to my attempting a Deep and Meaningful. I try again, “Your inner critic? You know, the voice in your head that says you’re doing it all wrong, you’re a crap person, you never get anything right?” It says something about the veracity of the ‘opposites attract’ adage that my husband responds thus, “Yeah, I don’t think I have that.” I don’t believe him at first. How could he not have an inner critic? He must just be unaware of it. I am nothing if not helpful, so I suggest some things I imagine his inner critic might (others might suggest, should) say to this man I have been with since my teens. Like, “Why bother trying? You’ll only fail.” Or, “You have so little follow through.” I’m fluent in this language of censure and, truly, best placed to elaborate my husband’s specific failings. If there is a vacancy for the role of my husband’s inner critic, maybe I could apply for it?
If I was to encounter my inner critic in real life, I would cross the street to avoid her. But she would anticipate my move, no doubt, and come at me some other way; she is one crafty bitch. After an unchallenged reign of 39 years, however, the power has gone to her head, and she is caught on the hop when I finally launch my insurrection. Unbeknownst to her, I have amassed an artillery. I have become ‘aware’ (introspection and personal development being my main form of entertainment during lockdown – we couldn’t go anywhere, remember?). I have read all the books and listened to many of the podcasts. I can now register the negative thoughts, from the fairly benign “another five lengths you lazy bitch” while swimming for ‘pleasure’, to the insidious “you’ve made a fool of yourself again, everyone thinks you’re pathetic.” What is more, I have put some safe social distancing in place – two metres at least – between herself and myself. I no longer see her as me.
I start to tentatively offer alternative points of view, a kind of fake it ‘til you make it practice in the expensive journal I have decided I am worth the price of (even if I cannot bring myself to sully the first clean page with my less than significant musings). I follow the usual advice at first and begin to imagine the response I would offer to a friend. Then, and with significantly more impact, I imagine what I would say to my children, were they to own up to such thoughts. I realise then that I do not need to imagine or learn or fake the language of unconditional acceptance. I started to practise this tongue as soon as I became a mother; momentarily unable to hold my first born after my arms had had gone weak from shock, my first words to him were in this language of reassurance, love, and holding. In the subsequent years I became proficient – carefully constructing the syntax, practising the verbs, expanding my vocabulary, perfecting the accent. I have three little interlocutors now who accept me as a native speaker of this language of unconditional love and compassion. All I need to do now is speak it to myself.
So I give it good to my inner critic. She is particularly shaken by the power of my regular self-compassion practice. I am similarly shocked to discover the potency of simply responding to myself with a bit of TLC.
And it does not have to be all deep and meaningful. It goes without saying that I can mine compassion for myself from my childhood; I grew up in a house where critique of others was seen as a mark of intelligence and wit, and where to express emotion was to invite derision. But at a surface level, the “I’m wrecked tired from the kids” justification is just revelatory. I cannot believe that ‘with all my education’ as my family might say, it never occurred to me to contextualise the feelings and behaviours I berated myself for. “But you’re so tired,” I write to myself now, almost daily. It is such a small and pragmatic kindness, yet it has taken so long for me to extend it to myself.
Ditto, “But you’re trying your best.” Once I examine this, I find that I generally always am – aren’t we all? It does not mean that I get it right, or that I even do a particularly good job. It is about intention. The day I threw my toddler’s soother out the window to prove a point that he did not have the cognitive or emotional maturity to in any way interpret (oh his poor bewildered face), was I not doing my best (irrespective of the result)? Did I not wake up that morning with the intention of being a good mother and keeping my son safe and content? Not too long before children, a good friend challenged me on what I meant when I said, with apparent regularity, that I had not given ‘my best’ at a research or teaching task. She cited an evening course assignment in which she had earned a B. She told me that she had given it the best she could and was happy with it. I disagreed. She was well able to get an A, I thought, ergo she had not given it her best – she couldn’t really be pleased with herself.
With no small degree of patience, she explained to me that getting that B did not negatively impinge on her life. She could still do her day job effectively, be a good partner, maintain relationships with family and friends. The B did not prevent her doing her share of the housework; she did not forego exercise, proper meals, or sleep. We were on different planets, her and I. Doing my best at the time meant letting everything else in my life go to shit until I finished the task to my satisfaction. It meant crap food, no fresh air, sleepless nights, dry skin, greasy hair, see you/talk to you once I get this done, and often a tender swollen bladder from not permitting myself enough toilet breaks.
Now in my journal I channel my sensible friend. I even try to extract some bolstering from the “How do you do it? I’d just die” comments from my childless nieces; I am doing it, I am managing (just about). I had a kind of au pair once. Long story: I paid her, but she appeared to be on a holiday, even confessing on day two of her month-long placement (slash summer break) with us to not really liking children (this actually happened). We got through it. I enjoyed the almost-adult company. But she was aghast at the reality of my daily life with very young children – the lack of sleep, the constant attending to the needs of others, the futile unrelenting tidying, the stress of falls and temperatures, and the playdates with women with whom I had nothing in common apart from having recently procreated, where the type of food our child likes/dislikes/loved until recently but now will lose their shit if they see on their plate is the main topic of conversation. After one of these get-togethers, my kind of au pair helpfully shared with me (and please imagine the dramatic Spanish accent) “This is what you do every day? I would kill myself.” Now I look back on that observation and I write to myself, “What you’re doing is objectively hard, go easy on yourself.” I am sure that underneath all that teenage judgement and smug conviction that she would not end up like me, she was projecting compassion. I do not wish colicky light-sleeping twins upon twins on her, believe me.
The fantastic thing about this self-compassion habit is its range; how it can be extended outwards towards others. I even proffer the tiredness defence to my husband now.
Where previously I was certain that whatever thing he said or did, or did not say or did not do, was proof of him being a complete prick, now I muse, “Maybe he’s just tired!” Our relationship is similarly reframed with a compassionate lens. We never have any time together, we’re both constantly exhausted, the kitchen is a state, he didn’t get up last night even though it was his turn, I had cabin fever so bad that when he got home from work I held so much irrational anger towards him that I couldn’t look him in the eye until I’d gotten out for a walk… how amazing is it that we still yearn for time together, that we do our best to support each other, that his arm finds its way around me every night?
All this compassion work builds to a particularly sweet before-and-after moment. But first some background: this is The Before. I start to fight with my husband. To clarify, I do not ever see it as me picking a fight, but I must admit that he does not ever start a fight, as such. I see my upset as the only possible consequence of something he has said or done, or oftentimes not said or not done. I wait for him to give whatever only correct response I have predetermined for this situation, which he is ninety-nine times out of one hundred ignorant of. Surprise surprise, he does not offer the desired response. I get more and more upset. My inner critic is on a roll. “If he doesn’t know what’s upset you then he clearly doesn’t love you,” she reasons. She casts doubt on our whole relationship, “You’re a fool, he has no respect for you. Why are you even together?” My husband, finding himself ambushed and powerless in the face of my distress, gets overwhelmed and worked up himself. He tries to soothe me, most times.
As the years go by, he tries less, loses patience quicker, gets angrier and more resentful (maybe he’s really tired!). I, in turn, get more extreme; whole nights of precious sleep are lost to tears and rumination. I am desperate in my quest for what I need from him. I will do anything to get it. Except figure out what it is of course. I wear both of us out. The next day I sometimes have trouble remembering how it started (and I swear I do not start menstruating on eighty per cent of these days). Prior to my deliberate awareness and self-compassion practice, I do not understand that the belief that occasionally assails me – that I am not really loved – is something my husband cannot fix.
And this is what an epiphany looks like. This time, I am 39. I am a few months into all the self-compassion stuff. I am sitting on the bed crying. I cannot remember why, but significantly I am not fighting with my husband; I have not felt the need to pin this upset on him. This is progress. When I tell him how I am feeling, he offers me a hug and I let him put his arms around me. Ditto. As always, when something upsets me, I have gone straight to self-shaming – I hate myself, I feel weak. My inner critic is running the show on autopilot, “God you’re so pathetic.” And then the maddest thing happens. For the first time ever, mid-overwhelm, I find my voice, and I answer her. And it feels like the most common-sense, utterly unremarkable observation that I cannot believe I have never suggested it before. “No, you’re not pathetic,” I say, “you have experienced something you find upsetting; you are now upset. This is hard.” The relief is immediate, like permission to exhale. This is The After.
Helena Guerin, May 2022
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