The Inner Critic

the-inner-critic

I was standing in a changing room the other day, struggling to get into a dress. It was one of those changing rooms in which high street stores seems to delight – the fat mirror imported from the funfair; the harsh, overhead light that picks out every lump and bump and dimple of cellulite. You know the ones? I guess every woman does.

So I’m looking at myself and saying, “You’re so fat. Your arms are disgusting and that jelly roll around your middle is revolting.” Now, if somebody had walked into that changing room and said those words to me, I would have probably decked them with a swift right hook. But me saying it to me? I averted my eyes and said humbly, “Yes, you’re right.”

I can turn into a bully at the blink of an eye; one glance in a shop window and that mocking inner critic kicks into action, sneering at me like a kid in a playground. Some days she simmers down a bit and I can look in the mirror and think, “huh, not bad,” but it doesn’t take much to upset her and she’s off again. Read More…