Skip to main content

A letter to my biggest critic


For most of my life, you’ve been by my side.  A quiet whisper in my ear.  Like a part of my shadow, you were there as I navigated through the decades.  Where did you come from?  When did you appear?  And why? 


I look back at my earliest memories and remember a happy, energetic, inquisitive girl.  Eager to try new things, make new friends, almost fearless at times.  She wanted to belong. That little girl would be one of the first to volunteer, was willing to share and even brave enough to volunteer to read a poem by herself at a school assembly.  She tried her best even though sitting still and paying attention was hard.  She wanted to do well.  She tried so hard to read letters and numbers.  She wanted to make her parents proud.  She had an imagination.  She loved to create.  She loved to play. She was a child.  But you were not there.

I feel a sadness wash over me as I continue to reminisce.  The torment she endured, the cruelty, the names echo through my memories.  Those words hurt that little girl more than the bruises left on her body.  Punched and prodded, slapped and spit on.  Held down, hit with hockey sticks.  Kicked, stomped, strangled.  Going to school was like walking through a mine field for her and her brother each day.   

The vitriol, like black tendrils spread beyond school reaching into other corners of her life.  Sunday school, Brownies, sports, even playing at the park she was not safe.  She tried to forgive, forget, just keep smiling through it all.  But that didn’t change a thing.  She went to friends, to parents, to adults, to teachers asking for help but it just continued.  Judgement. Dismissal. Blame.  No sense of support nor protection.

No part of her was immune to the poison spewn her way.  Intelligence, abilities, clothes, hair, weight, looks.  Back in those days, bullying wasn’t acknowledged like it is today.  Responsibility to rectify it was placed on the child – the victim.  The only assistance would be advice to try different approaches, to not let it bother her.  Yet, no matter how much she was rejected, she still she craved for acceptance. 

Such anguish for an impressionable child to endure. Gradually it chipped away at the essence of this little girl.  Venomous words, insulting names - branded, burned into her very core.  She felt unworthy, defeated.  That was when you started to appear.  My inner critic.

As this girl approached teens, her trust and naivety were gradually replaced with skepticism and insecurity.  When she started to blossom, there were boys who thought it funny not only to pull bra straps, but to grab and man-handle her, to humiliate her.  She felt ashamed. Dirty. Ugly. Unlovable.

With self-worth depleted, she started to question everything. What was the point of trying, of wanting, of learning – only to feel like a failure.  Why try to partake in activities – only to be left out, the last one chosen.  She was not good enough, not worthy.  Defeat was reflected in her grades, her activities – lackluster – like her confidence.  You were there whispering in her ear. 

As her naivety dissolved; stronger, more protective qualities evolved.  She wanted to remove this need for acceptance, love, validation.  You were there.  The constant reminder.  Whispering.  Quashing goals. Crushing dreams.  Reminding her of what she was worthy of – and what she wasn’t.  Molding her. Your whisper grew.  Louder and louder until she couldn’t hear anything but you. You were an integral part of creating this outer shell.  Defiance. Rebellion. Self-harm. Anger. Deception.

As she approached adulthood, your influence had affected her greatly. Choices and experiences derived from you.  But a surprising thing started to happen as the years, as the decades went by.  Another voice emerged.  A whisper. Familiar. An inner voice, her essence.  Once thought so badly scarred that it would never heal or never grow.  Quietly fed with remnants of heartbreak and hardships.  Nurtured by maturity, by motherhood.  As this whisper got louder, your voice became a whisper.  The two teetering like a seesaw.  Back and forth – her very essence and her inner critic.

The wrinkles of time show on her face. The years of worry sparkle through her hair.  A half century of experiences, of evolution; of reflection; of realization. I know you – my inner critic.  I know where you came from and when you appeared.  But most importantly, I understand why you appeared.  I understand you grew from a need. A need for protection.  A warning to the little girl who once was.  I understand that you didn’t know how to protect her but tried.  Attempts of cautionary tales, but not knowing how or what to say, so you repeated the vitriol.  I understand. 

But the little girl is no longer.  She grew up.  She doesn’t need protection anymore.  You, my inner critic, have done your job.  You have contributed to making her into a strong woman.  I am that result.  Because of you I have a multitude of experiences, both good and bad.  I have loved and have lost.  I have endured and have excelled.  All which made me who I am today.  I thank you for your contributions, for what you tried to do; but ask for you to be silent.  Trust in who I am.  Let me be free.  It’s time.

It’s time for me to be free.  To explore, to experience with no inhibitions.  It’s time to realize my abilities without apprehensions.  To ride the winds of wonder with excitement.  Let me realize my capabilities, let me be complete. Please let me be free.  Let me be me.





Comments

Post a Comment

Past posts

I am still. Motionless.

  I am still.   My eyes are closed.   I see nothing.    Motionless. I hear nothing but my heartbeat.   A rhythmic pulse, my beating heart, reminding me that I’m alive, that I’m awake.   Attention is drawn to my breath.   Air filling my lungs, my chest expanding, reminding me that I’m alive, that I’m awake.   I try to move ahead. But I cannot. I am still. My eyes are opened.   I am standing. Motionless.   I see a path ahead.   Images ahead which I cannot recognize. A collection of color, of light, of dark. I feel a calling.   From the path itself or what’s down the path, I cannot tell which, but know I must go.   Forward, into the unknown.   I try to move ahead.   But I cannot. I am still.   I raise my hands.   Palms faced forward.   Motionless.   I feel a barrier which I cannot see.   Like a glass wall. Clear yet solid. I feel the coldness of the barrier.   Like an ice wall. Frozen and numb. I try to move ahead.   But I cannot. I am still.   My will is there. I lack momentum.   M
Post a Comment
Read more

Petals of Emotion

  Like a blooming Dahlia, opening wide to the sun. Each petal opens, boasting its color, creating sheer beauty. Warmth in my bosom grows, tightening my chest, shortening my breath. Filling me with excitement, a burning passion, pure bliss. Love. Like a wilting sunflower, after darkness falls. Weighted down by the center of its being, tearing its grounded roots, leaving a gaping hole. A painful ache inside me grows, a hollow echo crying, vibrating throughout me. Welling tears burn my eyes, a knot in my throat, pure despair. Grief. Like a wild rose emerging, finding the light after a forest fire. Peaking through the ashes, looking up at the sun, vibrant color emerging from the dark. Love and experience feed me, a new me emerges, pure intrigue. Life. 
Post a Comment
Read more

The Trunk

In our family “the trunk” is a metaphor for the unspoken.  Be it a wrongdoing, an embarrassment, a taboo, or a secret, it’s best to “just put it in the trunk” where it’s hidden, safe and sound; to be forgotten, never to be spoken of again.   In my mind’s eye, the trunk is old, like a large steamer trunk that my grandparents would have brought over from the old country.    Held in a cold, stone chamber, this worn wooden box, wearing marks from a long, hard voyage’ sits in the center on the cold, wet floor.    Its rusty metal clasps hold the lid hiding its contents.    Inside, it’s dark, damp, deep.    An ominous vibe oozing from cracks and crevices.    Secrets quietly humming, anxiously waiting to be released.   The protectors guarding the trunk vary, depending on when one enters the chamber.    Dressed in long dark hooded robes, the elders have inherited the duty to guard the trunk and all it contains.    Should those approaching speak to the guards, they would be urged to leave, to ne
4 comments
Read more

To my 80 year old me

As I write this letter, I’m in a state of uncertainty.  I’m grieving the loss of my Walter and am just a shell right now.  Knowing that I need to move forward, but don’t yet have the energy or will to dream, feel and redefine who I am.  It will come in time. I’m writing you this letter in hopes that my wisdom, experiences and regrets have shaped my future in a positive light.   I assure you I am trying to realize my capabilities and celebrate my successes so that the next thirty years are lived to their fullest – filled with confidence, happiness and stability. There are a number of things I hope you’ve accomplished over the years.   I hope that you’ve remembered to see beauty around you, that you’ve celebrated and shared it – be it by word, pen or paint.   I hope that you’ve forgiven those who’ve held you back, caused you pain or sadness – most importantly yourself. I hope that you’ve learned to see yourself through the eyes of those who love you – and truly see your beauty
Post a Comment
Read more

Grief is the price of love

Walter Kennedy,  My muffin.  My love.  My life.   As we approach five months since I last touched his hand, kissed his lips; I still feel empty, numb, lost, mundane.  Each day takes me farther and farther away from him.  My calendar is filled with 'first without'  and memories 'last time with'.  Life  feels surreal.  When this reality hits me, it  practically takes my breath away.  Mo ments where emotions are overwhelming, physical pain, crushing my chest, my broken heart.  As time moves on, I  become more familiar with this new existence.  Gradually there are more m oments whe re my smile is genuine and I do  have a sense of 'normalcy'.   His presence gave colour and vibrancy to my life. And his loss dulled it to a monochromatic grey. In time I'll add color to my palette, but will never match the verve we had.   h Waves of emotion appear without notice.  Some arrive with a crash shaking my foundation.  Others like a ripple...slowly enveloping my
Post a Comment
Read more