I heard from someone that by the fourth blog you have said everything you need to say and start repeating yourself, churning out the same old tunes, like a jaded ‘70s rock band, who peak at the third album and find all they can muster is to freewheel downhill from there. I’m going to carry on regardless, although I know that by writing this on a public platform, I am exposing myself to one of my greatest fears – the fear of what other people think of me. Which is sort of why I am persisting.
My therapist, Jill, hit the nail on the head. My own worst critic is me. I have my standards set high, looking for perfection in myself 100% of the time. Never comfortable with letting my standards drop, too worried about what would people think. Why should I care so much of what people actually think of me? Where does this insecurity come from? What does it really matter what someone else thinks?
I had the opportunity of going to an academic fee-paying high school thanks to an assisted place scholarship scheme back in the 80s, so stood out like a sore thumb in my village as I didn’t go to the local comprehensive with all my friends. And at 14, I won a national writing competition for a newspaper, the prize being an all-bells-and-whistles trip to India. Why does this matter? What has this to do with what people think of me?
Starting when I was about 12, I began to hate the space of no-man’s land between school and home. I loved my school, but it wasn’t where everyone else went and simply because of that, I was bullied by a few kids who hung around the bus stop, as kids did back then when there wasn’t much else to do. Every day I would get off the bus. Every day the words, ‘posh cow’, ‘snobby cow’, ‘stuck up bitch’ and other name calling would be thrown at me; words that dug deep wounds, labels that stuck to me like the spit that sometimes accompanied their vitriol. I would run from the bus stop back to the safety of home, covering my school uniform (a ghastly checked bright blue skirt and blazer) with my coat; trying to block it out, pretending I couldn’t hear them. I remember completely denying the fact that it was me in the local newspaper when success in the writing competition was reported. I cringe now when I think of the 14 -year old me, pretending it was another girl they had heard on local radio. I remember vividly one boy coming so close to my face I could smell his bad teeth, saying, with pure hate, ‘who the fuck do you think you are – do you think you are better than us?’
And with that subconscious seed planted, without realising, I came to believe people were waiting for me to fail so they could all say, ‘I told you so’ when I took a tumble, as surely, who the fuck did I think I was?
Over the years, I moved on, got on with my life, and really forgot those early teen years, but I had set up a pattern in my brain where subconsciously I had to make sure I didn’t fail, as surely I would be judged for not being perfect. I was protecting myself by setting the standard bar for myself high. Too high. Which is exhausting when you have been doing it as long as I have, and I can guarantee this has 100% contributed to the anxiety I have come to terms with now. With such high standards it is hard to relax, hard to stop thinking what other people think of you. Hard to get it out of your head that people will judge or misjudge you. Fear of what people think.
Jill has been gradually guiding me, showing me how to unravel this cloak of security I have been wearing. Learning that thoughts are just that – thoughts. Thoughts are not facts. Other people’s thoughts have no effect on you. You all probably know that already - I, however, would take it personally when some red-faced road-rager would scream at me for making a simple driver error. I would feel really bad, really shit, wondering what I had done to cause such a reaction - and dwell on those stirred up feelings for days.
Did you ever play that game as a child where you would have to run to the next lamppost before a car appeared, and if you didn’t make it, there would be a consequence? I dared myself as a kid to make these consequences bigger – ‘I have to run between these two lampposts before a red car comes, otherwise I will die’, daring myself with the game of chicken, and as the dares got bigger I diced with not only my own death (in my head of course) but with the lives of family and friends. Needless to say, I never failed, and no-one died.
I jest, but one exercise Jill had me do was to think to myself a really horrible thought about another person and hold it there and then see the consequence. “Go on” she encouraged in one session, “a big nasty thought”. I thought evil thoughts about a friend – not a close friend I hasten to add - and then Jill asked what that friend thought about my thought. And I realised, in that moment that my friend had no idea what I had thought, of course she didn’t; how could she… and that thoughts of mine had no bearing on the actions of others. Me thinking about a car crash isn’t going to make the car crash. Me thinking of the worst-case scenario isn’t going to make that scenario come to life. Lots of lightbulbs pinged over those sessions and I became quite free with my imaginative evil thoughts.
What I think of someone or what they think of me does not make it a fact. Someone doesn’t like my hair cut, or choice of jacket, or spies my nail varnish is chipped – and? Someone doesn’t like the way I am bringing up my sons or thinks I am too liberal with the F-word. So? By exposing myself to one of my greatest fears – the fear of what other people think of me, just by writing this all down, is proof that I know am beginning to learn to let go and not really care what people think of me. Learning to drop my standards a little, I am realising that people just don’t notice if I have dyed my roots, worn something three days in a row or not hoovered. And if they do, so what? What would actually happen?
The adult me looks back at those bullies and sees just words and actions of bored kids. The 14-year old me didn’t know what she had done to make other people hate her so much. I wish I could go back, whisper in her ear and give her the confidence to just not give a fuck.
That was a good post but I have to say that the person who commented on your blog and the person that shouted into you face is, in essence, the same kind of person. That has to be jealousy and nothing more. The kind of thing that prevents people who want to be singers, actors or musicians fulfilling their dreams because of nasty people. The same with budding poets and writers.