My Inner Critic
From the second I wake up each morning until I fall asleep each night, I hear a running commentary in my head. It usually goes something like this:
“You’re so freaking stupid. I can’t believe you did that.”
“What is wrong with you?”
“Of course you screwed up. You always do. Typical.”
“You’re an awful mother. If you worked with her more, she wouldn’t have delays.”
“Don’t bother showering or putting on something nice. You’ll still look like shit.”
Before you can ask, no, I’m not kidding.
There’s a very old record player somewhere inside of me. And this same record has been on the turntable for years. Because it’s scratched in places, some parts just play over and over again. Drumming it in. Sealing it. Locking it tight.
CONTINUE READING IN THE BEDROOM