Inner dialogue with Critical Parent

Dialogue between me and my inner persecuting critical parent:

ME:  Wish I had more balls.  I want to be like the Meryl Streep character in Devil Wears Prada.

CP:  Stop whining and do something about it.

ME:  I thought I was.

CP:  Well, obviously you’re wrong.  It isn’t working.

ME:  So what should I do?

CP:  I don’t know, it’s not my problem, it’s yours.  You’re the one who keeps playing Ms Nicey Nicey.

ME:  You’re driving me crazy.  I’m turning off the volume so I can’t hear you.


ME:  That’s better.  It’s nice and peaceful when you’re not around.  Next time you think you’ve got something to say keep it to yourself.  It don’t want to hear it.

CP:  Well you should, because I’m just doing this for your good.  The whole world is laughing at you.  You think people are reading because they like you?  Who gives a damn what you feel and think and how your mother hurt you and blah blah blah.  Get a life for christ’s sake.

ME:  (Damn volume knob…)  How do you know that’s the truth?

CP:  Please.  How many friends have you got? If you died today there wouldn’t be anybody at your funeral.  You’ve alienated your family, you’ve walked away from every friendship you’ve ever had.  In any case, they were all sick of your whining.


CP:  Look, get off this blog thing.  This isn’t what blogging is about, anyway, why don’t you read other people’s blogs, see what they’re doing?  Stop being so fucking precious and arrogant.

ME:  Oh there’s the volume.   Where’s the superglue?


ME:  Ha!  I don’t see how listening to you and believing you is going to make my life any better.  I know what this is: as soon as I get confident that what I’m doing has prospect you try to spoil it.  Doesn’t matter what I’m doing.  Singing, watching a movie, watching tv, practicing piano, getting my script to Robert de Niro, writing –

CP:  Your superglue doesn’t even work properly.  Yeah, and look how well all of that is going.  You don’t know how to write a thriller.  You’re so totally isolated that you don’t even know what other people do so how can you write believable fiction?  If you were a balanced normal person maybe people would want to get to know y-

ME:  HEY!  You’re a cancer.  If I was Sister Theresa you’d tell me I was doing all that charity work so I could go to heaven.  If I was Oprah you’d say how dare you think you can lead the world when you can’t fix your own problems.

CP: –

ME:  I haven’t finished.  It’s not about me doing right or wrong.  It’s about there being no place for me to flourish in your world.  No matter what I am, no matter what I do.

CP: –

ME:  Did I say I was finished?  I didn’t even invite you in here.  You’re not welcome.  Don’t come back.  I don’t care if I’m wrong,  I’m allowed to be who I am.  What people think of me is none of my business.   Whatever they say will be about them, not about me.  If I press their buttons that’s about them, not about me.


ME:  What’s the matter?  Cat got your tongue?   Something you’re missing completely is that no person on earth can be more than they are at any given point –

CP: –

ME: – and I’m better at it than I used to be.   You’re a bully, all sound and noise signifying nothing.   I’m moving on up, moving on out, that’s what I’m doing.   Screw you.

Huh.  That did it.  The damn thing has gone away.  And I still wish I had the balls of that Meryl Streep character in The Devil Wears Prada.


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