Non-fiction

A Bear Playing a Keytar

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I’ve waited several months for this day, and I can’t believe it’s finally here. Football season has begun. Goodbye to the summer. I wish it well, and may it never come back again. I hate it. There’s nothing to look forward to anymore. I feel that way, and I’ll keep feeling that way from here on out. Let the fall take over and winter to follow. I can’t wait for the cold to arrive.

I’m sitting in a coffee shop, softly gazing out a window at parked cars and other cars drifting down Adams Street in La Quinta. I want to sit here for days, even when the table is wobbly. I hate wobbly tables and chairs. They drive me nuts. It’s like a squeaky wheel on a shopping cart. It won’t stop, and it’s broken. Minor disturbances in my life, like ringing in my ears.

I’m going to sit all day and watch football with my parents before I drive back home and prepare for work tomorrow. I wish I didn’t have to work, but I’m taking a week off at the end of September, which I look forward to at least. Whatever I do doesn’t matter as long as I’m away from work and the nightmares that come with it since it has taken over my life.

I went shopping yesterday at Nordstrom Rack and bought two T-shirts and two pairs of shorts. The shorts were two colors: blue and gray, while the shirts were blue and yellow. The yellow one has a drawing of a bear with sunglasses on as he plays a keytar. The keytar was popular in the eighties when rock band players used them. I believe bands like Cheap Trick. I’m not positive, but they’re the first band that comes to mind. Either way, the shirt made me smile, which was the reason I chose it. I’m wearing it right now. I was anxious to wear it today as soon as I woke up.

After shopping, I went with my parents to a restaurant named Pacifica, where I ate a cheeseburger. The place is known for its seafood, but I don’t like it very much. It doesn’t get me excited. Don’t get me wrong. I like lobster and some crab when it’s cooked right, along with shrimp and maybe scallops if I’m in the right mood, but I’ve never been hankering for a plate of fish. It just doesn’t excite me too much. But my parents chose it after we couldn’t get a table at Tommy Bahama’s for another half hour. I knew it would happen because at that restaurant it’s always the case. We didn’t want to wait that long.

Pacifica was booked, too, so they made us sit in the bar, where the tables were slim. We could barely fit our napkins and utensils. We also sat next to a couple of old drunk ladies cackling between dialogues. One of them ate the biggest plate of steak and mashed potatoes I’d seen in a while. They shared the hugest strawberry shortcake while we waited for our orders.

Our waitress had nothing of a personality. I had a hard time choosing something to eat, not because the menu was crappy but because I was torn between the Wagyu burger and the fish and chips. I’m a burger connoisseur, so my policy is to go with the burger if I have to decide. The soda was flat while I waited. They’re always that way at a restaurant with a bar. For some reason, the sodas are always flat from the nozzle as opposed to fast food joints, where the sodas always fizz, and I never complain. The Wagyu burger made it to my top ten list of burgers of all time. The Wagyu was cooked just perfectly with gruyere cheese on top. Chefs across the world should include gruyere on burgers more often. I never thought it would be such a delectable combination.

“This place gets an A,” I told my parents. My only beef (pardon the pun) with the burger was there was too much lettuce, which was no big deal because all I had to do was pull some of it out. And the tomato was mushy. I like my tomatoes tender but just hard enough to eliminate the mushiness.

After dinner, we capped the night off with ice cream at Handel’s in Indio. My parents ordered a pint of ice cream each. Mom chose mint chip, while Dad, along with me, chose the peanut butter chocolate brownie. Except I drank a milkshake. It was going to be peanut butter ice cream alone for me, but Handel’s had decided to discontinue it, maybe because it wasn’t ordered enough.

“Most people order the basic chocolate, strawberry, or vanilla,” my father said.

And maybe he was right. People are bland and don’t take enough chances. Ice cream could be a perfect example. Kids love ice cream, but they’re never daring enough to eat a flavor like peanut butter, and I love peanut butter anything. If peanut butter were a soda flavor, I would go with that over Coca-Cola. I’m sure it would be nice.

Non-fiction

A Flat Earth?

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Disclaimer: These ideas are purely fictional and are not based on scientific evidence, nor are they meant to spread misinformation. They’re hypotheticals from the writer’s imagination. It’s important for the reader to research actual scientific evidence about the subject matter and form his/her/their own conclusions.

I question the argument as to where the earth is flat. Flat earth theorists believe government agencies have fooled the public into believing the earth is a sphere. Suppose it is a spherical shape. Wouldn’t I constantly lose my balance when I walk as opposed to if the earth was flat? When explorers navigate–or in conventional scientific terms–circumnavigate the earth, what if instead of circling it, they’re actually coasting along because the earth is a massive conveyor belt or a film strip constantly rolling? So when an airplane or any aircraft travels across the earth, what if it reaches its starting point eventually as the massive conveyor belt rolls?

What if none of us are actually moving but stepping on the perpetually rolling flat earth? Think about it the next time you pedal your feet along a treadmill at the gym and how it rotates. What if that’s what happens when you run or walk? What if the earth is moving but you’re not?

And take a look at the flatness of the horizon. Do you see a curve? People can see it from the sky when they gaze out the window of a commercial airplane. Photographs from space clearly show the earth is round. But how does water remain without dripping off like it would on a peach? Gravity? What if the earth isn’t a magnet, as we’ve been taught since grade school? Water stays on flat surfaces, not round surfaces. Wouldn’t the water fall right off and drop into space above us and beneath us? Can you balance yourself on a yoga ball?

Time zones have been created because the earth is round. But what if we all shared the same time, except easterners wanted to stay ahead of the westerners when it comes to information?

What if the sun and moon roll with the conveyor belt because they’re connected? What if we experience night and day as the earth, sun, and moon loop beneath and above us all?

This is speculation of course as I eat a breakfast sandwich with not enough bacon.

Non-fiction

Sober Life

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I watched the football game last night, the first one of the season between the Chiefs and the Ravens. In between plays, I was reading comments on social media. Some of them were disturbingly humorous. Others were downright shocking. Some of the posts were actual stories–objective news if one can believe.

One of them was about a Ugandan woman who ran in the Olympics whose boyfriend set her on fire. She eventually died. I don’t know how soon but what an awful way to die. Not that I wonder as much as what kind of sick individual would murder another human being in the manner he did? It makes me want to crawl into bed and not go outside. And some of the comments were about as disgusting as the act itself.

I read other threads, mostly about the game when it was on. I switched between the football game and the women’s semifinal of the US Open, where sixth seed Jessica Pegula played the unseeded Karolina Muchova. It enthralled me more than the football game. I’ve heard other people say football players are the most athletic people in professional sports, but I don’t know. I’ve watched enough tennis for the past two weeks to convince myself these players might be better conditioned. Maybe it’s my eyes. Anyway, Jessica Pegula won the match in three sets to advance to the finals after being down 6-1 in the first set. Quite a comeback!

Then I switched to the football game. The Chiefs were leading 27-17 at one point, and the Ravens closed the gap to 27-20 with under two minutes left. Lamar Jackson is nimble on his feet but still can’t chuck the ball accurately. I won’t rank him as one of the elite quarterbacks. He ended up losing the game for the Ravens after overthrowing his tight end in the back of the endzone. The tight end couldn’t keep his feet in bounds.

I read a post about sobriety. The person who wrote it said he’d been sober for a year, and in that time, no changes in health, no lost weight, and less joy in life. As discouraging as it sounded, he was honest. I’ve been sober for six years, and I can’t say my health has dramatically improved, nor have I lost much weight if any weight at all. As for joy, yes, drinking once brought me the luxury of meeting people and having fun with them at bars or at parties. But now those times have left, and they’re missed. Nothing has really changed for the better except the absence of hangovers. Of course those I don’t miss. But that’s the one benefit. It’s depressing to admit.

Oh, and I’ve saved money, a lot. I used to live paycheck to paycheck, but I still would live paycheck to paycheck if not for my benefactor. My job pays me below the level of poverty. It’s criminal given the inundation of work they’ve dumped onto me. Besides the point, I can’t say my life has improved at all. The only difference is I’ve lost one of my joys and a life of being somewhat social. Other people in the thread agreed: life is boring without alcohol. Others counterpointed with the subject of spirituality. I’ve felt nothing spiritual during my departure. Everyone is different. No one can force their higher power onto me. It begins inside.

So what shall I do? Go back to drinking? Maybe in moderation if I can control myself–the kicker. My doctor would get upset, so would my family. They’re the police. I have to take a mountain of medication each day, and alcohol doesn’t mix with the pills. I’m stuck with useless prescriptions. Who the hell said Adderall even works? I still can’t focus on even the lightest task. Maybe someday my brain will finally heal, maybe in four years when a decade has passed.

I do applaud the ones who’ve found a more joyful life in sobriety. They know the secret, the rest of us don’t. I do also encourage alcoholics and addicts to attend AA meetings. Even if twelve-step doesn’t work for them, at least they’re going out and meeting people.

Non-fiction

The End of Summer

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I was born in the summer, and I used to love vacations, but now I loathe the season for being too hot and not giving enough breaks like the winter when there’s Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Years. I sweat and suffer through June, July, and August. September is insufferable too, but I begin to see a glimmer of hope. But it hasn’t cooled down. It’s almost ninety degrees in the morning, and a heat wave has flown overhead and doesn’t plan on flying away any time soon, like a massive raven in the sky. It flaps its heavy black wings and fans more heat onto the valley, where I sweat when I cross my legs.

I went to the gym yesterday just to stay cool and used a stair stepper for a half hour. It makes me drip sweat in front of a television. I wanted to watch the US Open, but on all six televisions in the cardio room, they showed one of those corny comic book movies like Thor or X-Men or Ironman. I was sure it was Thor. I saw a buff blond man with blue eyes in every scene. Why would I want to watch a movie while getting exercise if there’s no sound? It didn’t matter. I was wearing earbuds anyway.

I came home about an hour later and watched the US Open. Sinner played Medvedev, two of my favorite male players in the world, and their poetic strokes. Their rally points went on for over a minute. Amazing how long they could last through each point. They’re conditioned to be machines. In four sets, the number one player in the world, Sinner, won the quarterfinals and will advance to the semifinals to play whoever. I’m sure he’ll win. He’s just too good. I would’ve loved to have seen a fifth set to end the match, but Medvedev couldn’t hang: too many unforced errors. He’d reached fatigue by the fourth set.

The match ended around eight o’clock at night my time on the pacific. I settled in, knowing today would be long. But tonight, football season begins, and I have my fantasy team lined up. It’s something to look forward to when there isn’t much to look forward to anymore. I take what I can get. I never thought it would be this hard when I was a teenage boy with visions of so much more than what I have. No one told me life would be this disappointing. It isn’t something you would tell someone at so young an age. How will I last another thirty years? My parents have made it so far, and they seem happy.

And then I received an email from my tax firm. It said my social security number had been exposed on the dark web. A security breach occurred, and someone may have stolen my identity. I thought it was a phishing email at first, so I was afraid to click on any links. But after I called the firm, they told me the email was real. Bells and whistles went off in my mind. I logged onto the firm’s website and found more notifications. It suggested I call a few places to put a freeze on my accounts. At least they still look secure, but I don’t know. Those criminals may have cleaned me out by today.

Non-fiction

A Dream About English Class

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I struggled to get out of bed this morning. The bed felt feathery, and I was at the right level of sleepy. I didn’t want to get out, but I was forced. It was after five, and I would’ve stayed if I’d given myself permission, and I would’ve overslept. But who cares? I don’t even feel like writing. I don’t feel like doing anything. My job has me handcuffed. I’ve lost interest in everything.

I had a dream where I was taking a night class in a classroom with the best quarterback in the world: Mr. Patrick Mahomes. The English teacher assigned us a poetry assignment and elected Patrick to give us the subject.

He said he wanted the poem to be about 1960s women’s fashion in Norway and how it affected women’s culture. What a tough assignment, Mr. Mahomes. Poetry is difficult enough. Why must you make it harder with the subject you’re giving us now? I would have to research women’s fashion in 1960s Norway and find its impact on women’s culture in the decade.

I raised my hand and asked the teacher, “Why must we write about such a difficult subject, let alone have it be poetry?”

Mr. Mahomes turned around at his desk to face me and said, “There are two types of people in the world. You’re a ‘me’ person and I’m not.”

He turned back around in his desk to face forward and everyone applauded his statement except me. After all, he’s Patrick Mahomes. He would be applauded of course. Whatever he says is like a quote from Gandhi.

So everyone began the assignment, but not me. I was lost for words. I couldn’t come up with any in the context of women’s fashion culture in the 1960s in Norway.

Patrick turned around once more and smirked at me after his light jab at my personality. He bothered me to the point where I couldn’t start the assignment. Good thing I brought my smartphone, and I could look up the subject on Google. Lucky for us all, Norwegian women’s fashion reflected the American fashion of the decade. Women wore like late sixties Bohemian floral and paisley prints, mini skirts, turtlenecks, headbands, large sunglasses, knee-length dresses, bodices, beaded necklaces, wool coats in the winter with scarves and gloves, low heels or gogo boots, and shirt designs of checks and polka dots. It added enough flair to my free verse poem. I forgot what it was, but of course Mr. Mahomes wrote the most popular poem out of all. He’s the best quarterback in the world.

I woke up and never got back to sleep. The morning was still dark, the fan blowing against my tired body. Now it’s Wednesday. It’s going to be another struggle full of mistakes and pressure with my job. I want to quit today, but I can’t. I’m not a salesperson. I don’t wish to sell products, so when am I going to write to human resources? Should I wait until next week or do it before the week is over? Maybe I’ll spend eternity wishing I was alive. Death will suck as much as life. Somewhat of a humorous take on both.

Non-fiction

Labor Day Weekend

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It was a blessing to have a three-day weekend after all the work I’ve done, but now it’s over, and I must go back. I spent Saturday with my parents, and we watched tennis at my apartment. I hadn’t watched it in a while. The US Open was on, and I got to watch Daniil Medvedev. His motion is poetry: the way he serves with his feet moving lithely, the way he swings loosely with his backhand. He easily ousted an Australian in the third round in three sets with his wiry frame. I missed his match in the Round of 16, but I’ll catch him tomorrow in the quarterfinals. He may be my favorite player to watch, not to take away from Jannik Sinner, the best player in the world at this moment, who played last night against the American Tommy Paul.

When you see his name and hear it pronounced, you wouldn’t think Jannik is from Italy, but he is, or at least that’s the country he represents. Tommy was beating him in the first set, 4-1. I thought Jannik was going to lose that set with his unforced errors. He kept hitting forehands out of bounds. Tommy Paul seemed to have been beating him mentally. Jannik’s head wasn’t in the match. At one point, Tommy was up 40-0, I believe, in the game, when Jannik beat him four points straight to make it 4-2 and proceeded to win the next two games to tie the score. I knew it would happen. Sinner is a machine. He ended up winning the first set in a tiebreaker, 7-6.

I took a shower afterward and missed about half of the second set. When I came back I think Tommy Paul was up by a game. and neither opponent had broken serve. Tommy kept leading until about 5-4 when Sinner came back again and led him 6-5, but I’m not certain. The crowd was causing a ruckus, rooting for the American. That’s how it has always been at the US Open, unlike Wimbledon or the French Open, where the crowd is relatively polite. The American crowd doesn’t hold back like it’s a football game. The chair umpire had to keep hushing them whenever Jannik tried to serve because they were trying to break his concentration. But Sinner is such a cyborg that he doesn’t even let them faze him.

He led Tommy Paul in aces. His average service speed was 124 MPH to Paul’s 116, I believe. Sinner made some unbelievable crosscourt forehands when Paul sent him to the doubles lines. Sinner would slide across the hardcourt like a hockey player to retrieve those balls and defeat Tommy with multiple passing shots. Jannik won the second set in another tiebreaker, and by the third set, Tommy Paul was finished. It may have been exhaustion, but his shots weren’t as powerful, nor was his serve. He kept hitting the ball into the net when it looked like Sinner was only getting started. Jannik had saved his energy after playing his worst tennis in the first set, which he won anyway.

He beat Tommy with ease in the third set and won the match three sets to zero to make his way to the quarterfinals, where he’ll meet Daniil Medvedev sometime tomorrow. I won’t miss that match. Who knows if Jannik Sinner will win the US Open? The only major tournament he has won this year is the Australian Open, but he’s still the number-one seed based on his record. He has lost only twice in the majors this year. I expect him to be at the top for a long time.

I hadn’t watched tennis this close in years to keep up with the best in the world, both men and women. Iga Swiatek is the women’s best. She’s a machine as well, from Poland, and just as impressive to watch as Jannik Sinner.

Non-fiction

Nothing Changes

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I crawl along when nothing changes. All I see are parasites of my time sucking at my patience. What else can I do but let them finish before continuing on my path? They move on to the next hosts and finish them as well. I can’t tell if someone is or not, not anymore. That’s how they feast upon the land. Thank God for text messages, or they would call me every day. Sometimes someone will call from the likes of Colorado, usually a telemarketer. I know enough about cold calls from my job. It’s the worst thing I could do, but I must do it to get paid, so I’m a parasite as well. For the most part, that’s what humans are, although we would prefer not to admit it to ourselves or anyone. Who would want that label? It’s painted in such a harsh light. But I do believe it’s in our nature to suck the blood of someone in front of us who can’t look over his shoulder at what we’re about to do.

The best defense against a parasite is a lack of hygiene. Don’t keep yourself clean. They won’t come near. Don’t wash your hands after you use the bathroom, or wear repellent such as too much cologne or perfume, preferably one that’s pungent, and they’ll stay away. Educate yourself on how to detect a parasite before he latches onto your skin. Eat a well-balanced diet for optimal energy so you can have a stronger awareness of parasites in your vicinity. The weaker you are, the more vulnerable you are to infections.

Know early on you’re dealing with a parasite. Look for warning signs such as useless banter when your time is being sucked away. Fend him off immediately by saying you must get to work even if he knows your work schedule. A parasite could be your mom after all. It doesn’t just have to be a shitty neighbor or shitty friend or shitty acquaintance. You must be bold in their presence, or this parasite might suck up your time and energy. God knows they’ve sucked up enough of mine. I can barely walk these days after too many parasitic infections. They can’t kill me but they can do their job at making me wish for death, at which case I become vulnerable to even more.

Non-fiction

A Chicken in a Thunderstorm

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I ate at a restaurant last night, more like a diner, where the acoustics gave me an earache. A table of screaming girls drunk off something and boisterous kids at the table behind me filled the ambiance. I couldn’t even hear my father, part of it because he lacked energy and could barely speak up. Except I heard him ask me if I’ve been looking for jobs. I would’ve rather not heard him say that because the job search has me feeling hopeless. I didn’t know what to say other than nothing.

I ate a half-pound cheeseburger, and I’d had better, I’d had worse. It tasted like home cooking if you’re into that. I say you’re better off at home where it’s cheaper and the sound won’t scratch your eardrums. My mother said her fish and chips tasted the same. She called it comfort food, and I agreed.

My father said it was the best egg sandwich he’d ever eaten. I tasted hyperbole, but maybe he was honest. It didn’t look that great, and he didn’t even eat the bacon. He fed it to me like I was a dog. How could he not eat it on a breakfast sandwich? That’s like a PB&J without the jelly. But his diet has always been strange. He used to eat Necco wafers for candy. If you’ve never had a Necco wafer, it’s the worst candy ever invented. Basically a paint chip with sugar. I may as well be eating chalk. His favorite licorice is black over red. His favorite chocolate is marzipan. Where did he pick up this unusual palette? Other people like those things since they still exist, don’t they? I have more conventional taste buds that crave pepperoni and mushrooms on my pizza. He likes black olives, which ruin the taste. Oddly enough, I used to enjoy black olives when I was a kid. I would stick them on my fingers and eat them off. It was fun. Nowadays, such a thing I won’t do. I don’t get close to black olives or green olives unless I’m drinking a cocktail. But since I don’t drink anymore, having one makes no sense. Actually I don’t mind one on a Greek salad with feta cheese and cucumbers. I’m sure they go on one but not positive. It could be black olives instead.

But anyway, he’s getting more exhausted, forgetting the names of football players or getting them wrong altogether. I have to correct him or pretend he got them right to not point it out. Is this the beginning of dementia? I’m worried. I’ve moved to Palm Springs knowing I’ll have to take care of them sooner than later. My mother is doing alright, but I see him every weekend and notice his cognitive decline. His intelligence has remained, but his memory is becoming duller than ever. I don’t recall him a year ago forgetting so many names. He had things to tell me yesterday, but they kept slipping from his mind. Wow. I asked Mom about his lethargy, and she said he took B-12 shots the other week, but his urine has been way too yellow. I didn’t see the issue with that. I guess there must. Otherwise she wouldn’t have brought it up.

The question remains where will I be in the next five years when their health deteriorates? They’ll be in their eighties, and I’ll be in my fifties. I don’t know if I’ll even have a job. What will I do to support them and myself? I often worry about how I’ll survive alone when they’re gone. I’ll find a way through my resilience, although I’m too scared to find out how.

Non-fiction

Burnout

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My therapist told me I should tell my supervisor that my work is impacting my mental health. She’s right. And I should transfer to another department. I could work with drivers again like I did in the beginning, unfortunately for less pay but also a healthier balance instead of stressing over work, even when I’m gone. My days and nights consist of work, exercise, eating, and sleep, in that order. But work is on my mind all day about mistakes I’d made and the inundation of assignments, and when I’ll get fired. Where will I land?

A new marketing strategy they assigned on Thursday morning, one I don’t understand at all, possibly had to do with a bonus program for customers. I don’t know. I didn’t attend school for a degree in marketing, and so what are these buzzwords? Not only do I have to complete that assignment, but I also have to close my cases, prevent businesses from attrition, and answer emails that are three days old. And the list keeps growing. There aren’t enough hours in the day unless they expect me to work overtime which I refuse to do. They put me on a salary, and I’m haunted by the word expectations. Expectations, expectations, expectations… I can’t maintain, and I’m supposed to meet a quota each month, which I’m not even close to meeting. Our products suck, and most customers aren’t interested in buying. We’re far inferior to our competitors and do nothing close to competing, making everything a harder sell.

I have my own book of business with over three thousand clients, and I’m supposed to take care of them all. One of them was interested in staying with our company but was offered a deal from a competitor of a fifteen thousand dollar signing bonus, and he asked me what we could do to compete against the offer. I didn’t know. I’m clueless when it comes to marketing, and my company is full of so many stipulations that I had to ask the higher-ups what we could provide. And so the higher-ups decided for me to pitch a promo of five dollars off any order over thirty-five dollars. Are you kidding? I thought, how the hell would the owner reject the fifteen thousand dollars for a puny promo like what my company offered. Not to mention the customer was partially deaf, so I had trouble hearing him talk over the phone. At one point, he said, “Do you even know what you’re doing?” No. Not at all. He could tell I was inexperienced.

There are so many actions I can’t take. They go against company policy. I have to email everyone who wants me to set up their promotions, and they have to agree in the email and over the phone. The email has to be accurate, and I must show the email to the higher-ups to receive a credit, or I could be terminated. I don’t know how much commission I would make off each one, but I do know my payslips have been sad. I can’t make a living off this job, and they couldn’t make me work any harder.

I have to walk away to restore my sanity. I’m not sleeping. I’m no longer enjoying the simple pleasures. My job has clutched me at the throat. I’m cooked. I should complain to HR, but would they have my back? I’m not sure. I heard HR works only in the best interest of the president and the company. Employees are expendable. I’m not needed. They wouldn’t care if I left tomorrow, evidently through the payslips. But hey, they provide me with medical and dental insurance from an insurance company that blows, of which my therapist has refused to partner, so I have to pay her the full amount without any coverage.

And she’s just okay, nothing great. I see her once a week and don’t feel any better. Have you ever sat with a therapist and ran out of words to say before the fifty minutes were over? I go through that problem every time. And she just sits through my laptop and says close to nothing. And when she does, she regurgitates what she has already said. I feel hopeless. I’m waiting for a glimmer.

Non-fiction

Criticism or Compassion

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I keep a digital notebook in my backpack, and it’s barely used. It’s for jotting notes or writing sonnets when I have time, and time these days is at a premium. There are just not enough hours to do everything. There used to be time a plenty when I was younger, but more responsibilities have fallen onto my plate, and I barely have the space to enjoy life’s simplicities.

But anyway, I write in this notebook words of criticism and compassion. I’ve been reading about ways to challenge my inner critic, and one exercise is to go a day criticizing myself about everything, just piling it on. And then the following day, replace those criticisms with statements of compassion, and alternating day by day as an experiment to see how I benefit from them both. I’m supposed to see that self-criticism doesn’t benefit me at all.

I used to call myself stupid and incompetent, among other nasty accusations. I thought it would help me improve if I just kept treating myself that way, thinking I would learn my lesson and smarten up. But such isn’t the case. Self-compassion is the better route. Instead of calling myself an idiot, I can tell myself I did my best. But then my self-critic would tell me, “You need to do more. That’s not enough.” At which my self-compassionate voice would say, “Yes it is.”

The war goes on forever. I’m still critical of myself, and that’ll probably never go away. If I could just give self-compassion a chance… My inner critic might weaken. At least I hope. He’s strong and tough to defeat. I’ve built him up for so many years. I can say a decade ago he was domineering, laughing, calling me weak. The self-critic isn’t me. I’ve been possessed by someone else who wants to inflict punishment for a reason, a reason I can’t find. I live it every day. I can’t go to sleep. The inner critic is too loud. He’s the ringing in my ears. I try to counterattack him with self-compassion, but the inner critic tells me, “Ha, how phony.” I submit to him and tell him, “Okay, Mr. Self-Critic. You’re right.” I let him win, but in reality what good has he done? Has he helped me improve? My logic tells me no.

Was this something I was taught since early age? Was I bludgeoned by the message that the only way I’ll get by is through criticizing myself, calling myself an idiot, and telling myself that I’m incompetent? Do they teach self-compassion in school, or is it the opposite? My peers were critics. Not many were compassionate. I was always competing for something to achieve. I had to get better grades to go to a nice college. And once I made it to that college, I had to get better grades to score that nice job after graduation. It only got worse from there. All the while, people insinuated I was dumb or incapable, thinking discipline would turn me into something better. Did any of it really work, or did it only hinder me and make me worse than I was?

I can’t control the critics, but I can control the compassion within myself through practice. The worksheet I’d followed asked me if I would say these things to a loved one or a child. Would I call them idiots or incompetent? No, of course. I wouldn’t even come close, so why would I say it to myself? What have I done to deserve this sort of treatment? I’ve listened too much to all the critics and have never been skeptical. I was always saying, “Okay, you’re right.” I’ve even been treated that way by friends. It boggles me how I kept them around. They’re not around anymore. I can honestly say I haven’t had many good friends. What’s a good friend like? Most friends would tease me in front of other friends to make themselves look better. I wisened up and cut them loose. Now I barely have any friends at all. It takes a lot of work, but I must learn to surround myself with compassionate people and leave the critics behind.