Love Lenses

Yesterday, during an email conversation with an old friend, I commented that my life has not turned out the way I meant it to; that (although I didn't have an actual plan [which might be a big part of my problem]) I feel I've squandered my potential and have missed out on some pretty significant milestones (like finding true love and a real home).

He (gently) yelled at me. He told me that was ridiculous. He pointed out the many things I have accomplished and said I should be proud of my life and myself. His words were not new to me. And though they shifted my perspective and perception in that moment, I had to admit that they are words I've heard before - words that others who love me have uttered (or yelled... gently... or not).

But my perspective and perception always shift back.

I replied that I know my deep, dark secrets. I know the ugly things I think/have said/ have done. I know the shortcuts I've taken, the plans I've abandoned, and the many, many ways I've failed or failed to try. I know me. I know the Me that few (no?) others know and, as such, I don't feel deserving of the admiration that comes from the people who view me through love lenses. Those people - with their perspectives and perceptions clouded by love -  are so willing to overlook my shortcomings, you see. But I? Am not.

I'm not the only one who feels this way. I can name handfuls of others without even thinking about it. I think it's something more women than men do, though we're all susceptible to it. It's about self esteem and confidence, certainly. The critical views of ourselves usually come from deep-rooted places, often the result of unkindness or even trauma we've endured at the hands/voices of others - sometimes (often... usually?) those close to us. Our inner dialog is often simply a continuation of theirs... or a manifestation of how they have made us feel about ourselves... how we have allowed them (and us) to make us feel about ourselves.

And I'm the very first to admit that it doesn't serve me well. 

It doesn't serve any of us well.

Most of us take care to speak to others - even perfect strangers - with kindness, with civility. We would never be deliberately cruel to people we love. We would never criticize a friend when it's clear that friend needs our support instead.

Yet we're willing to say horrible, hurtful things to ourselves. 

I'm willing to say horrible, hurtful things to myself. And worse, I'm willing to believe them. And worse still, I'm willing to discount or even dismiss all the good I might do in this life because of the things I mess up.

After my marriage ended, I went back to the therapist who helped me deal with the overwhelming grief I experienced when my father died. She had me do an exercise that felt silly at the time, but which I can now see the value in. She told me to give that voice in my head - the one that tells me I'm less-than - a name and a persona. She told me to talk to her; to tell her to shut the hell up if I felt that would help.

I didn't do it. Not really. As I say, it felt silly and pointless. The voice was too big, too loud... and quite frankly, I was just too damned tired to fight.

So she won - that voice. She's been winning for a long time. There have been times when she's backed down, times when I've bitch-slapped her into submission... but most of the time, she's up front, yelling loudly, like a redneck at a Trump rally.

I've hated her. I've spent years hating her. But instead of walking away from her, which would have been the healthy thing to do, I gave her the best seat in the house, man. She got the prime real estate in my head and free wings and beer.

Comfy seat? Free food and booze? Why on earth would she ever leave?!

I've thought for years that she's angry. At me. She's certainly loud and mean and angry-sounding. And it seems I've given her a lot to be pissed off about. But I've come to realize that her meanness isn't anger after all... it's fear. It's the deep, profound fear of never being good enough. She's cutting me off at the pass. She's making sure I don't try.

I've learned over the years that we criticize others, not to help, but to make ourselves feel better about our own lives and decisions. When we actually want to help, we accept, we love, we encourage.

When we want to help, we accept, we love, we encourage.

  
So I've decided to do what my therapist suggested all those years ago. I've decided to give that voice in my head a name and a persona. I've decided to talk to her. And I've decided to give her some love. Instead of telling her to shut the hell up, today I asked her what she's afraid of. Today I looked at her through love lenses. Today I began the task of healing her, because she's clearly hurting. And today I decided to accept her and all her pain and fear, and I asked her to do the same of me.

She seemed receptive.

And now we'll see if my perspective and perception doesn't wind up shifting... for good. 

XO,