I had a pretty scary parenting moment the other week, the details of which I may disclose in a future post, but it was bad – in fact it was straight up ugly. I wasn’t at my best and my anger, which has been known to rage from time to time, took off uncontrollably and came pummelling down on my daughter.
I felt absolutely horrible after the fact. I was instantly consumed by sadness, guilt and shame, and it definitely took me down a peg or two. And just as I was sinking into this terribly fragile and vulnerable state, my inner critic decided to show up.
But don’t be fooled, her timing was not coincidental at all, in fact it was planned to a mother fucking tee. That’s because she’s always watching, just scoping things out from the corner of the room, waiting for the perfect moment. The moment when she can make herself most useful, the moment when her narrative can just slide in and take over, the moment when she can win. And turns out it always lines up perfectly with when I’m already down.
How fucking cheap is that?
In any case, it’s been almost a week and a half and she hasn’t left yet – she won’t even let me write. Every creative idea or story that comes into my head is instantly squashed. She picks it all apart. She tells me that my stories are a waste of time and that nobody’s going to read them anyways. And even if I do decide to write something she condescendingly asks me what picture I think I’m going to post with it, because she’s determined that no amount of lighting or filters are going to help how I look these days.
Worst of all, she made me google “am I a good Mom?” after the whole shit show went down the other week. Can you believe that!?
So, I decided to write about her.
Because inner critics love to not only consume our thoughts, but to isolate them as well. If they can get a sequence of words on repeat, a sequence that can effortlessly play over and over in our heads during the silent moments or in the darker corners of our minds, then their work is pretty much done. All of a sudden we’re the ones carrying the torch while simultaneously questioning why our shirts are on fucking fire, as they just sit back with their feet up and a smug ass smile on their face.
But what they don’t like? What they hate more than anything? Is being exposed.
So I’m calling you out chica. I’m done with this exhausting, unproductive, bullshit dance. You are not me – not even close. And I don’t know where you get your material from, but it’s pretty sad shit. And yeah, maybe I need to be a little bit more empathetic towards you, because why are you so damn mean and angry? But for now, I’m calling it, we’re done. It’s been a slice and now you gotta go.
And just a couple more things before you leave so we can set the record straight: I am a damn good mom and a damn good writer. And I chose this picture just for you because even after you’ve made me cry – with tears still in my eyes, and a little snot coming out of my nose – with no makeup, and no filter…I still look damn good.
Peace out, homie.
And to all the other inner critics out there – piss off.