“Suddenly, I realized that the critique I was most afraid of wasn’t Nina Kats, it was me. The truth is at any given moment. Someone, somewhere could be making a face about you. But it’s the reviews you give yourself that matter.”
– Carrie Bradshaw
Back in 2013, I binged watched the entire Sex and The City series, completely emerging myself in Carrie’s not so realistic life, Samantha’s reckless sexcapades, Miranda’s perfect cynicism, and Charlotte’s over the top fairytale ideologies. It was heaven spread out through 5 and half days. At some point, I took note of the above the quote, and stuck it within a draft post entitled, “Come Read This Often”, and of course forgot about it because: life, ADD, and old age.
Yesterday morning, I was catapulted into a universe of drama, neatly decorated with subtweets, coded conversations, and passive aggressiveness. Anxiety grew, because that seems to be happening fairly often now a days, and for me to deal and preserve my mind, I pulled back from all communications with everyone. The week before last, I presented to a group higher ups, fully prepared and yes, against my own will, and then fumbled over a slide in which turned the rest of my presentation into the type of presentations junior-high students give. You know, the ones where one faces the slide and avoids all kind of human interaction. Oh, and let’s not forget my performance review with my boss where I felt forced to provide a speech on my below average performance these last few weeks, consisting of a lot of “I’ll do better” and “I’m aiming to” statements.
The common denominator between these three events was me, and this bitch that lives inside of my head.
Maybe bitch is a little too harsh, because sometimes her assumptions and intuitive thoughts are accurate. But there are often times where she’s forceful, full of shit, and has me teetering along the lines of self-doubt and insanity. Like up above, where the drama I thought was centered on a minor conversation I had 2 weeks prior had nothing to do with me. Or the presentation that I thought I bombed, which actually earned me several compliments and an email from a VP stating that I made it all make sense. And the dreaded review, where I tried to negate the forecasted terrible remarks, which didn’t seem to exist, because my role was expanded, right after the “I’m so proud of you” talk I received (and still replay in my mind when my boss irritates the fuck out of me).
In this day and age, we practice the art of tough love and discipline by means of being curt, frank and sometimes beyond raw with our words. We build tough skin by means of withstanding the bullshit, and we push ourselves to success, and sometimes the limit with the usage of comparisons, unrealistic expectations, and pride.
But when in the world did we abandon being good to ourselves? Being kind to ourselves?
No, not splurging on a little H&M outfit, but being compassionate to ourselves in a state of panic, or in the face of insecurity. The kind of self-talk where we say Yes, you can own that dream versus Dream a little safer. The type of kindness that cheerleads for you instead of bullies you. Or simply the ability to speak positivity into your being, contradicting the self-deprecating tape recorder that seems to be owned my most millennials.
When did we forego all of this to provide ourselves with such terrible ass reviews?
I guess that’s why I stumbled upon this gem this afternoon. I needed to remind myself that though I am a big girl, and can handle the blows of life, I also deserve a little tenderness. I sometimes need to be handle with care, because sometimes I am most definitely fragile. I deserve to be provided with glowing recommendations, five star reviews, and a bag of chips because, damn it, I work hard for my shit. And who better to provide them to me other than myself?