The fact that I feel pressed to make disclaimers about what I do or don’t say on my own blog already reveals the presence of a dominant inner critic.
It thinks it is protecting me from damaging any reputation I may give off for having artistic ‘professionalism’. And indeed I feel I must impress the residual code-work that is at play here: that professionalism is code that stands against the act of being ‘too honest’, ‘too giving’ about ones own vulnerabilities, for fear of a loss of market value of the self-as-object.
Once I fathom a way to lessen this deep weight that has dragged down all ambitions I’ve had over the last couple of years, all future projects will not only see an ownership of my long struggles with mental illness, but also be a challenge to the dominant perceptions of professionalism, not least the one that equates being professional and ‘being good at what one does’ as the same thing.
Self-hatred is, in my experience, when self-criticism becomes deeply depressive as opposed to just merely anxious. It’s a horrid place when a state of circular reasoning sets in, through an overabundance of negative thoughts about both oneself and the world as it appears:
“I hate feeling so lowly and shameful, I deserve to feel better”
“Yeah, but look at how hopeless the world is at the moment. What hope is there for a little piece of shit like you?”
and so on…
And this goes on and on and on and on, until you literally have to sit down and close your eyes. Sometimes even simply sleep it off.
There is a physical reality that does seem very hard at the moment. Life in the United Kingdom for the average person has got worse, that cannot be denied, and there is a pervasive sense of deflation. Perhaps hopelessness.
Hopelessness without an ability to spare oneself the courage and faith to keep going, can be dangerous.
I guess this is what concerns me as I turn 40.
However this is partly self-hatred talking, loving as it does, to gorge on negative facts about my age, my career prospects, and what it sees as my lowly prospects of being able to find love/be loved.
I look in at characters on television screens, or walking down the street, and can only conclude by the breeze carrying their gait that they aren’t quite plagued by this. That they just live, and are not pushed to the margins of life by the narratives that say one is will never be capable of living ‘properly’.
All my life my inner critic has told me that I’m a wierdo, a freak, and that the only way I can succeed is by doing something extraordinary, because, for me (and me only) ‘ordinary’ would mean being insufficient, incapable, last in line, picking up the scraps of life.
Over the last few years it’s become more and more noticeable how damaging this story has been. It’s jeopardised so much, ruined moments that could have been substantial life experiences. All because in the midst of the everyday the ‘you’re worthless’ thoughts drop like monsoon rain drops.
A lot of these opportunities in life will never come again now.
The noise can get so heavy that I get snappy at people offering me advice. But they can’t hear the noise, they just see somebody who, I guess, from the outside, seems capable of so much more.
It would just be nice to wake up one day and never hear this self-hatred again. Wake up as if from waking up after the guns have stopped firing, and to be able to just do things in my life, without trying to walk through a solid wall of self-critical noise.
John B Ledger 