"Why are you so hard on yourself?"
I have been asked this question many times throughout my life. I always just accepted it as who I was: a perfectionist introvert. This changed after a therapist challenged me to separate my dark thoughts from myself. She personified my negative tendencies as my “inner critic” and explained that he had been coiled so tightly around my brain for so long that I mistakenly thought he was me, that his whispers were so familiar I thought they were mine.
She encouraged me to isolate my inner critic through roleplaying. She set up an empty chair so I could speak directly to the dark thoughts and call them out for their distortions. (See Chapter on CBT). It was awkward at first - I never enjoyed drama in school - but it did help to conseptualize what she was saying. Sometimes she would even have me sit in the dark chair and act exclusively as the critic. I surprised even myself at how hateful my thoughts could be. I was vicious and unforgiving. Back in my own seat, my therapist and I would unpack what I had said and acknowledge that the voice in my head wasn’t mine and didn’t have my interests at heart. I should note here that I didn’t actually hear voices, but rather they were dark thoughts and ideas.
Once we agreed on who my inner critic was, it was time to challenge his poisonous words directly, and the only way to do this was through self-compassion. Every therapist I have ever had has, to some extent, pushed this strategy. If they meant to go out and buy chocolate-covered almonds, I would have happily complied, but they didn’t mean self-indulgence. I’ve always shown compassion and patience for others, especially my children, but not for myself. It seems disingenuous, all unicorns and rainbows. The critic was a realist. He stated the way things are. I’m a failure because I have a litany of proof scattered throughout my life. I’m a disappointment to others and myself. I don’t deserve self-compassion. Besides, I wasn’t even sure where to start. When you live a life of self-loathing, the mere idea of self-compassion seems ludicrous.
According to the critic, every achievement in my life has a “ya but” attached to it. For example, I won the grade 4 essay writing contest but didn’t win at regionals. I could play Nobody Does It Better (the title track from the James Bond movie The Spy Who Loved Me) on the piano, but I couldn’t really read the music. I had to translate the music notes into alpha notes and then learn the music by memory. I can only play the first chords now because I never really knew how to play.
The earliest act of self-hate I remember was in Grade 8 when I had to write a sentence that included the word “substance.” I wrote, “My face is made up of an ugly substance.” My teacher didn’t follow up with me after I handed it in. I’m sure the reaction today would have been an intervention to ensure I was alright.
I have always liked to play on my own. There was less concern about being judged. I would often lie to friends who invited me over after school. I would say I was not allowed to play when in reality, I just wanted to be alone. Being social as an introvert is tiring. I had been social all day in school. I had had enough for one day. I needed a rest to recharge.
Jump ahead 45 years, and therapists are forcing me to practice self-compassion. It’s not easy.
In fact, it feels downright impossible. My inner critic is far too established to allow me to love myself. You don’t pray you will die every night when you are full of compassion.
My second favourite therapist encouraged me to start small and to identify one positive thing
about myself. I tried:
I'm not a bad person.
I'm not cruel or selfish.
I just have these constant thoughts that won't go away.
I was amazed at how empowering it felt to declare those few truths.
From there, we moved on to declarations of why I was not worthless. I never really thought of myself as worthless. A failure, a disappointment maybe, but not worthless. My therapist wanted me to start in the darkest place and rebuild my confidence from there. She encouraged me each step of the way as together we fleshed out the details. This positive reinforcement gave me hope. I had never had that much-declared support in my life. I’m sure it was there among friends and relatives, but no one explicitly looked out for my interests, or if they did, I dismissed their efforts as being obligatory. The critic would then add, the only difference now is you’re someone’s job.
I never reached out for help. I was forced to see my first therapist after I attempted at university. I did my time there, then moved on. (See Chapter on Therapists) It took me years to finally approach my family doctor about my mental health, and it took months of her encouragement for me to tell my wife I was struggling.
In the end, we composed a mantra which I read out loud to an empty chair. It felt silly at first, but in the safe place that was therapy, it helped to further split me off from the negative thoughts. This is what I came up with:
I am not worthless.
I am compassionate.
I am patient with others.
I do my best to see things from their point of view.
This kindness defines me.
I am not worthless.
I am creative.
I thrive when inspired.
I always look for new ways to try, new ideas to explore.
This energy defines me.
I am not worthless.
I keep fighting.
Sailing through an endless storm,
tossed by doubt and hate and fear,
crushed by judgment, battered by failure.
The fact I survive defines me.
I am not worthless.
I am determined.
I have succeeded.
Despite all the words from the past and present
and the thoughts of what might have been.
This strength defines me.
I am not worthless.
I am compassionate and creative
I keep fighting, determined to be me.
For the first time in my life, I felt proud of myself. Not proud of a specific event or a school grade but proud of being who I was. This euphoria, though, didn’t last long. I was just caught up in the words rather than their meaning. I could read them aloud in therapy, and it felt good; anywhere else, though, it seemed like I was just being self-indulgent, making it all about me. I never thought I was worthless. Where was the proof for everything else?
We next tried to be more specific with my definitions. We created a bullet list of negatives, positives and neutrals for specific aspects of my life:
My Physical Appearance
How I Relate to Others
My Personality
How People See Me
Performance of Job
Performance of Daily Tasks
Mental Functioning.
So, for example, under My Physical Appearance, I wrote down thinning hair and overweight. My therapist then encouraged me to say something positive. This felt like a mind trap. I couldn’t think of anything I liked about my own appearance. Finally, she suggested, “You have a nice smile.” I nodded. She was right; I have been complimented on it before. Of course, that is due to all the money spent on braces when I was in elementary school. Was that really my smile? (As you can see, the critic is clever. He can flip anything on its head.) I ended the physical statements with a neutral - my eyes are blue.
Next, we moved on to How I Relate to Others. I am awkward in conversations and avoid eye contact. I say the wrong thing at the wrong time. More often than not, I am too anxious to speak. My therapist pointed out that I am not awkward with her, so I grudgingly admitted I can communicate happily with people I know. One or two people are alright, but the more people there are, the more exhausting it becomes. The critic takes over and tries to read people’s minds to determine if they are comfortable with me. (See Chapter on CBT) My therapist said that being shy of strangers need not be a negative. Caution is not a bad thing unless it prevents you from living your life. She then helped me to recognize that when I am silent, I am actually listening, which shows I am empathetic.
When I worked at Stats Canada during the Census, I had very irate people come to the reference centre desk. They were furious and swearing up and down. I just stood there in silence, absorbing their anger, a strategy I always use in similar situations. Because I didn’t engage them directly, they soon settled down so I could help them with their concern. Was it a good tactic, or was I just at a loss of what to do and was avoiding confrontation at any cost. Was I calm and patient or paralyzed and frightened? The critic was sure he was right, and I felt I had to agree.
My Personality is defined by my preference for being alone. I am an introvert which I wrote under both positive and negative. I enjoy my own company. I am my most creative when I have time to think and create. I only have a couple of friends, which is more than enough. I prefer not to leave the house if I can avoid it. I am very self-aware. I embrace my thoughts and feelings even when they are destructive and dangerous. That said, I am loyal, reliable and considerate. Because I think so much, I am a perfectionist that lacks confidence.
When she asked me How Other People See You, she was really asking how I perceive others judge me. On the negative side, they see me as quiet, shy, and maybe even standoffish. They may not even notice me at all, which can be a good thing. They see me as middle-aged and out of touch. On the positive side, I can be helpful, humorous, and kind.
My Performance of Job is mostly good. (The critic likes adverbs.) I am forgetful (probably because of the brain meds. See Chapter on Medications.). My spelling is terrible. Overall, I am likable and always try my best whether in the classroom, at the grocery store, at the Markham Museum, Statistics Canada, Tutor, EA, TA, janitor or running my own business. I have not had that many jobs in my life. I find work, especially a new job, stressful. I don’t want to let people down. It’s exhausting being so anxious all the time. I get better the longer I have done the job, but there is always something distressing each day, even if just for a moment. CBT helps me here (See Chapter on CBT) so I can manage my stress reasonably well.
My Performance of Daily Tasks in life is average. I don’t have the “visitor-ready” house I grew up in. My mother and a weekly cleaning lady kept our house sparkling. We were always ready for the Queen to drop in. I remember my dad would sweep the floor nearly every day after dinner. My floors can go for a week or two before I get to them. I try to clean the washrooms weekly, but it doesn’t always happen. I could be better organized, especially with meals and grocery shopping.
My mother used to have an agenda by the stove that had the weekly meals planned daily. I could see what we were having for Friday’s dinner on Monday. Her grocery shopping was precision. She only bought what she needed. I grocery shop ad hoc. I look for meal ideas, usually based on what is on sale. I decide at the store what we are going to have. I typically try to buy three meals if I can. Sometimes though, when I get home, I realize I have not purchased any meals. That is when I have to be creative with pasta or rice. I am not a chef, but I am a decent cook.
Basic daily tasks I find challenging. When I was younger, I used to find showers relaxing. I would stand in the warm spray and soothing steam for a long time, sometimes hitting myself (see Chapter on Latin), other times with my eyes shut, trying to disappear into the warmth. Now a shower is a chore. I have to force myself to wash up. I never make my bed. I had one therapist insist I do it every day. It never stuck, and I moved on to another therapist.
I don’t like talking to people on the phone. When I speak to someone, I use their posture or expression to judge if my words are appropriate. On the phone, you don’t have such cues. I know that texting has the same drawbacks, but with texting, a complete conversion is generally not expected. Quick exchanges are safe. All in all, My Performance of Daily Tasks is average, which the critic considers as a negative.
My failures in Mental Functioning include overthinking situations, being anxious and depressed, and having chronic suicide ideation. The positives are that I enjoy learning new things, like writing, and am imaginative and creative.
After we compiled a bullet list, more detailed than the descriptions above, I was sent home to combine it all in an All About Me description. It was supposed to focus more on the positives and neutrals, but it had to be realistic and believable, so I was allowed to include some negatives. I couldn’t use superlatives such as “never” and “always” because they were inherent exaggerations.
In 2016, this was who I was:
All About Me
I am six feet tall, 175 pounds, with blue eyes, a prominent nose, thinning gray hair and a friendly smile. Nice teeth too. I had braces. I wear stylish glasses but dress conservatively. My demeanour is calm, approachable and friendly.
I am empathetic and do my best to make others feel comfortable and accepted. Sometimes this can make certain situations stressful, but I find other people’s smiles rewarding. I have a good sense of humour that is quick and situational. I enjoy making children laugh and often use exaggerated facial expressions to lighten the mood.
I am thoughtful in conversation and try to formulate meaningful and relevant words before saying them. Because I do not speak out often, I am a good listener. Both my son and daughter are comfortable in confiding their problems to me. They know I will help them as best as I can without passing judgment.
I enjoy being alone though I am friendly when people talk to me. If I am comfortable, they soon discover I have a good sense of humour. This type of behaviour is usually unexpected because I am quiet and calm. I am considerate. I know how meaningful a genuine compliment is, so I watch for opportunities to praise others. I prefer to solve problems independently, and I’m always ready to help.
I am reliable and loyal. I like to be prepared and sometimes find it stressful when I can’t be as prepared as I would like.
Other people see me as kind and patient. I often hear compliments on how good I am with children. I’m also seen as approachable. Strangers often ask me the time or for directions.
I’m liked by the students I teach and tutor. I create a relaxed and engaging learning environment. I like to have fun and be funny in class. I am getting better at classroom management though I realize I still have a way to go. I am at my best with one-on-one teaching and, consequently, have had great success at tutoring. I have had some students for four years. I find teaching mentally exhausting and find it difficult to socialize with other teachers during breaks and lunch. I need that time to myself.
I manage our household pretty well. I am not my mom, but I stay on top of priority housekeeping, such as laundry, dishes, and cleaning the washrooms. I wash the floors and vacuum when I can. I only dust for very special occasions. I am proud when my house is “visitor ready,” but it is rarely possible in a busy home like ours.
I am a good father. I am generous with both my attention and time. I have no desire to be a chef. I am a decent cook. I could be more organized with meal planning. I have, however, learned to MacGyver dinner out of nothing when necessary. I watch what I eat and have good personal hygiene.
I am very imaginative and creative. In fact, if there is one trait that pervades every aspect of life, it is creativity. I love words most of all and often compose new descriptions and stories in my head. When I share my writing, I feel vulnerable even though I usually get positive feedback.
I love to learn new things, both abstract and practical. I am thoughtful and reflective and always look for ways to improve myself.
I am honest. I keep my word and always try to follow the rules.
And every night and every day, I pray that it’s my last.
When I returned to the therapist the next week, I read my All About Me piece out loud. She didn’t like my final declaration but recognized it had to stand. It wasn't a call to action but a statement of fact. She asked me, point blank did I exaggerate any of the positives? Was the piece accurate? I (or rather the critic) wanted to add a whole lot of adverbs to temper most of the assertions, but I had to admit it was mostly correct. The critic insisted I say “mostly” before I could acknowledge the exercise's usefulness. My therapist recommended I read the description once a week to remind myself that I was a good person. I followed her advice for a few weeks, then tucked it away. I never thought I was a bad person, just one with a specific destiny.
The inner critic still existed and constantly chipped away at my confidence.
I would say, “Because I do not speak out often, I am a good listener.”
He would reply, “You don’t speak out because you don’t know what to say. You are afraid of being judged. Most of your life is spent being anxious and too paralyzed to act. You don’t hear what people are saying. You are too panicked. You don’t even remember people’s names when they introduce themselves. You are so caught up in your own anxiety you don’t listen, then you are left looking stupid if you want to get that person’s attention.”
The critic also wants to add that my weight has now ballooned to 210. I have a typical middle-aged dad bod. I look eight months pregnant.
Another therapist encouraged me to define what self-compassion actually meant. It was to be a much more comprehensive perspective than All About Me. It was not a description of who I was but rather a philosophy for living well.
What is self-compassion?
Treating myself like I treat others.
Seeing things from my point of view and accepting that it is just as valid as other people's view.
Taking into account my happiness as much as that of others.
Recognizing when I am enjoying myself and appreciating it.
Recognizing when I am not enjoying myself and understanding why I feel that way.
Accepting what I've done was the best decision I could have made at the time.
Declaring out loud when I'm afraid and calming that fear just the same.
Encouraging myself to have hope.
I found my words inspiring. My therapist was genuinely impressed. My inner critic was dumbfounded. It gave a perspective on living that made sense. I recited my affirmation every day for a week. I even printed it on a cue card that I kept in my wallet. In the beginning, I would refer to it a few times a day. It felt like I had won. The statements were reasonable and practical; even though the last one never seemed possible, I found a commitment to it exhilarating.
While it was exciting in those early days, I soon discovered no matter how inspiring the words were, they were not a panacea. I still had challenging days. Sometimes I could shed light on my depression by reading my affirmation, but other days I was too exhausted. The critic would quickly pick off each statement.
For example, Seeing things from my point of view and accepting that it is just as valid as other people's perspective is optimistic at best. You know your point of view is not valid. It’s distorted by depression. Other people understand things better than you. They know what there are doing. You’re just faking it most of the time. These self-compassion thoughts are quaint and naive. You can write them down and recite them aloud, but they don’t change your life and purpose. You don’t really follow what they say anyway. They’re just pretty words.
And so, as time passed, I stopped referring to the affirmation because the critic kept repeating, “Why bother?” Powerful words. He would then add you can’t just start loving yourself after a lifetime of hate. You’re too weak. Besides, you’re undeserving of love. You’re an imposter, living your life fooling all the people you will hurt when you complete suicide. How cruel is that?”
Even when I am beaten down, there are times when I read my affirmation. I must acknowledge that Self-Compassion is not a great leap forward, but it is a powerful start that can be renewed as needed. I’m convinced that Self-Compassion is about recognizing and acknowledging the small victories that mean the most. It is about celebrating even the slightest hope. Recovery is a lifelong pursuit, and self-compassion is a part of that. Don’t try to change who you are; instead, remember that you matter and remind yourself of that over and over again.
I admire the motion of figure skaters as they glide across the ice, each moment a seamless sequence, each stroke effortless. If only I could live my life in such a way.
But wait, their grace is an illusion; it belies all the hours of practice, the falls and frustration. Their speed disguises their imperfections, their wavering confidence, their miscues. And so I admire them all the more. If only I could live my life in such a way.
Self-compassion was a helpful exercise. I often reread what I wrote. I’ve learned a lot about myself and have a much better understanding of my inner critic. It also gave me a better strategy for challenging the dark thoughts moving forward.
After many years, I have changed my diagnosis. I used to always say I suffered from depression, anxiety and suicidal ideation. It was a disease I was fighting like cancer. It was win or lose. I hoped that one day my medication and therapy would beat the disease or at least send it into indefinite remission.
At our first appointment, I remember telling my psychiatrist that suicide felt like the calm of a shady river bank while life itself was the chaotic turmoil of the rapids below. Anxiety and fear felt like drowning. The doctor assured me that after treatment, I would feel the exact opposite. Poor mental health would be the turmoil in the middle of the river while life itself was the calm on the bank. It was a promise I wanted to believe; hope is hard to resist.
But after eight years, countless medication changes, dose adjustments, seven different therapists, two different CBT workshops, an SI workshop, and three stints in the hospital, one of which lasted 9 weeks, it hasn't happened. I still get anxious. Suicide still seduces me with its promise of calm, its shady riverbank safe from the turbulent river. I admit the rapids are not as chaotic as they once were; the overwhelming sense of drowning has settled, but am I cured? No. Will I ever live without anxiety or suicide ideation? No. Without depression? No.
I have resigned myself to the fact I will always have symptoms in varying degrees. Life still lives in the rapids and whirlpools. My thinking has not flipped. My psychiatrist lied. But at least now, with therapy and medication, I have a life jacket and, at times, even a raft which I can pull myself onto to escape the turmoil of living.
There is no cure. But there is a way to manage the distress, and each day I get better at it (despite what the critic says). I have let go of the idea of being "all better." I no longer assess my progress based on my distance from a "normal" life. I no longer see myself as suffering from depression but instead living with it. I have decided my condition is more like diabetes than cancer. I have tools and strategies to manage the "glucose levels" in my brain.
Do I sometimes make mistakes and let my thoughts get out of control? Yes. Do I still listen to the critic? Yes, at times. Is the suicide ideation still intense? Yes, at times. Do I still get inspired by my self-compassion affirmation? Definitely! But now I recognize the calm of the river bank is permanent. It's where life ends. And so I do my best to swim, to hold onto my safeties: my therapy, my meds and my self-compassion. The difference from when I first sought help is that I now know I can do it. I know I can live. At least, I think so, at least for now.
After being buried in the ground
through a long winter deep in snow,
a green shoot finally pushes to the surface.
It grows where it was told it never could,
but it doesn't care.
It wants to live and reveal its leaves and flower.
I never thought I would feel this way,
but I do.
I never thought I could grow again,
but I can.
It's still early spring,
I know;
the shoot is still new and tender,
I understand,
but it's there,
a welcome sight at last.
