The Voice
The Voice is not so much Jiminy Cricket, or Tinkerbell, or even the cliche shoulder-perched devil and angel. It’s more of a Puck or Ariel, a malicious imp.
“You look fat in that; you’re so frumpy. You don’t really write or teach all that well.” This pesky buzzkill pours poison in my ear whenever I get ready to go out in public, perform any of the duties for which I’ve signed up, or field an accolade of any kind. It makes it difficult for me to believe that my appearance and achievements are ever good enough, let alone praiseworthy - even, and especially, if someone offers up a compliment.
That Girl
So you are just the “pretty girl,” right? That girl that everyone liked, that everyone wanted to look like, that everyone wanted to be with.
Five years ago, I sat at the Dirty Duck Pub, riverside in Stratford Upon Avon, a tradition after every show at the Royal Shakespeare Company. That sentence came from a slightly drunk, slightly heavy friend in a slightly snarky tone. It took me aback. “What? Me? No no no. I’m not pretty. You are!” (I meant it. She is.) “I was never popular.” Fortunately, the focus shifted off me because the stunning actor who played Coriolanus had just walked in and I volunteered to bring him to the table. Not because I knew him; not because I thought my beauty would wow him. Because I was the “mature” American who was far from home who had just started taking risks and stopped caring about embarrassing herself. It was specifically because I thought I was not pretty that I volunteered to approach him. I figured he’d never see it as flirting.
Passing the Torch
More recently, the imaginary imp leapt about like Rumpelstilskin waiting for me to weave the threads of my self esteem into gold as I prepared for the ceremony in which the Town of Westport would honor me for my tenure as Poet Laureate and welcome my successor.
I tried on five outfits, disliked them all, and settled grudgingly on one. I wrangled my frizzy, unruly summer hair with a big butterfly clip and applied a superglue-strength product to prevent errant curls from escaping. Ulta Beauty didn’t stock enough concealer to hide my face’s myriad flaws. I stood at the mirror staring at me staring back at myself. “This is as good as it gets,” I thought. “And it’s not all that good,” whispered the imp.
“You look great!” beamed a colleague at the event.” Her comment took me right back to The Dirty Duck. “Really?” Never believing compliments, I never fish for them, so the question was genuine. “Yes! You always look great!” Now I felt sure hers were gratuitous niceties as I knew this to be factually untrue. I explained my disbelief to her, and introduced her to the imp who had told me otherwise only moments ago.
“That’s called distorted thinking.” she responded immediately. “We all do it. You just need to recognize it when it happens and nip it in the bud.” So simple. So effective. I offered to pay her for the therapy session.
Huzzah
I sat in the front row of the cavernous library forum and listened as several town representatives and colleagues sang my praises as the inaugural town Poet Laureate. The imp alit. “Your poetry isn’t that good. You really could have done more.” I tried hard to flick it off my shoulder, and bask in the glow of the praise, but it lurked close by, parrying with a hat pin to burst my joy bubble.
“You really are a gem!” one friend said after the event. “I had no idea how much you’d done!” said another. I smiled and struggled to keep the imp at bay - I could hear it as it pouted in the corner after I’d dismissed it. I still felt it disingenuous or egotistical to simply accept the compliments at face value. My incredulity left the door ajar for the imp to sneak back in and start sowing the seeds of self-doubt.
Universal
I know that some people are impervious to this rapscallion. They are either so deluded or self-assured that the roar of confidence drowns out the imp’s implications to the contrary. Most people I know, though, are well acquainted with this rascal. We might readily see the best in others, but we reserve our harshest criticism for ourselves. From a young age, societal expectations and peer pressure work hard to erode our own self-possession.
Even writing this is hard for me because it feels like I’m holding up a big, illuminated APPLAUSE sign. Quite to the contrary, the act of telling the story constitutes a sincere attempt to heed some very sound advice about the sound of the truth.
Excellent. Were you writing about me? I too have recently decided I don't care about embarrassing myself and I too have decided to take risks more frequently. I also have decided to be more open to getting to know more people with whom I otherwise have only been acquainted, but by whom I've been intimidated. Like you. So there you have it!
Wonderful, revelatory essay, Diane! Your imp and mine must be best buddies. My imp was mentored by my very critical, military trained father, who crushed almost every dream with comments about ultimate impossibility. So, congratulations for looking your doubts in the eye and forging ahead anyway. That takes real courage. And look what you’ve accomplished!! xxx