There are times when it is really hard for me to be nice. Sometimes to other people, but mostly to myself. It is an ongoing thing. I think I am doing better, and then suddenly I am not. This is one of the not so good weeks.
Today I walked into the house for the third night in a row having left my phone in the car. Not a big deal. The car is maybe 15 feet away. In the garage. The phone is perfectly safe. No one ever calls me, so it’s not like I would be out of touch. If someone did call, they would leave a voicemail or message me. My house is so small that I might even hear the phone ring. So why is it that I said to myself: “Really? You’re too stupid to bring your phone in from the car? How do you even manage to walk upright!”
And promptly burst into tears at my own meanness.
Really. Tears. Out of nowhere.
So I said to myself: “Stop being such a fucking baby. I hate it when you’re like this.”
And cried harder.
Now, at this point I wish I could say that I remembered that I have a mantra for this and used it, but of course I didn’t. What I did was say: “No wonder no one wants to be around you. You’re a fucking idiot.”
And then, finally, the lightbulb over my head came on. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, told that bitch inside my head to give me a fucking break and got my phone out of the car.
If anyone else talked to me like this, I would tell them to fuck off. If they kept doing it, they wouldn’t be part of my life for long. Obviously, I am stuck with myself, but why is it so hard to make that bitch inside my head be nice to me? I would never treat a friend like that and I certainly wouldn’t let them do it to me. Why do I take it from myself?
Because people I valued in the past talked to me like that, and they must be right. It is really interesting that something someone said to me 37 years ago can still have such an impact, and how the many kind things said to me over the same period of time just slide off. My brain seizes on the kernel of truth in “you’re fat, stupid, and lazy” and is reluctant to let go.
I am fat. That’s a simple physical fact.
I am also prone to sloth. You could make a good case for calling me lazy if I didn’t go straight from work to writing or reading. My body might not be moving but my brain is.
Stupid? No. Just no. Not even remotely, except perhaps about interacting with people. I am shy and introverted. I am often emotionally clueless and weird. I am socially inept. My ideas tend to be unusual at times, but even on my worst days I shouldn’t think I am stupid.
So does the idea that I’m stupid and lazy give me a sort of excuse for coasting on some things?
Maybe.
Does that thought make me uncomfortable? Really uncomfortable?
Absolutely.
The thing that makes it difficult is that the person telling me to give myself a fucking break is a person whose opinion simply doesn’t hold a lot of value for me. I can tell myself I’m great, but if the bitch in my head still believes that I am fat, lazy and stupid, the nicer voice is going to be drowned out.
So why am I writing about it? Isn’t that just giving the voice in my head too much attention? Well, the theory is that it’s kind of like the way you bring yourself back to Now when you meditate by acknowledging that your mind is spinning, or you’re itchy and then just re-focusing. It’s like just recognizing that the bitch is there will take some of her power away. Maybe.
It is a constant fight to incrementally change it. This week, I am losing. Next week might be better. Or tomorrow. Or five minutes from now.
Pretty sure it will be better soon.
It always does get better.
Always.
And I may be fat, stupid and lazy, but I am also stubborn. It’s not like I plan on giving up or giving in any time soon.
Hand me some tissues, I am over it now.