Transcript: Episode 285
285: Challenging the Critic
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[Short piano piece is played, lasting about 20 seconds]
I don't know how to talk about what happened in therapy today. And I for sure don't want to talk about what happened in therapy today. But that's kind of the point: to learn how to talk about things and teach myself—all of me—that I'm still safe when I do so.
I don't even remember how it started exactly. But something came up about welcoming other parts to therapy. Or knowing that it's okay for them to come when we're ready or something. I honestly don't remember what she said. But we spent the whole session talking about what I said. Which was that I've tried really hard to make sure that parts don't come to therapy. And that I've worked really hard to be present in therapy so that it's about me getting better and not just throwing parts out everywhere. I mean, I know that's not how it works. But that's how it feels. And I said that letting parts go to therapy is what ruined everything last time, and so I'm trying to make sure it doesn't happen this time.
But she called that out. And we spent the whole session on it. Because we've talked about this before—‘the inner critic,’ she calls it. And if there's a specific part that is an actual inner critic, I haven't met them. And I don't know about them. Or maybe it's a part of all of us, all of us inside, and all of us in the world. But we talked about it a few weeks ago in the context of one of the books she has me reading. And so she thought it would be a good opportunity to practice, she said, while we were together. As I'm learning how to challenge those things that the critic says. It's a strange thing to even call it the critic. Because I don't know that it's capitalized as in like another part or person or alter. It's apparently just part of the way that we work and didn't even know it. It's part of what my brain has learned to do. And I wasn't even aware. But now I see it everywhere.
And so we played with her, the practicing of how to challenge the critic. Because what it felt like was that we ruin therapy. Just to keep things easy, and safe, we broke everything down really simply. Going all the way back to that cognitive triangle with thoughts, feelings, and behaviors. And our behavior was that we left therapy before. That's on us. Our previous therapist didn't tell us to leave therapy. Well, some of us thought she did. But that was a misunderstanding, I guess. And our feelings were that it was all our fault, that we ruined everything, that it was a disaster, that we'll never be safe again. And that's where the trick is, because none of those are feelings. All of those are thoughts. Inner critic thoughts. The feelings are fear and hurt and shame, overwhelmed, betrayed, tired of being betrayed, unsafe, struggling, sad, maybe even angry, angry at being unsafe, angry at hurting, angry to protect ourselves maybe. So that even for almost a moment, I understood Courtney. Almost, for a second. And so the challenge is recognizing what is the truth about those thoughts that we ruin therapy, and what is not truth. And the truth is, therapy didn't fall apart because we started talking. Therapy fell apart because we left. We didn't lose therapy because we started talking. We lost therapy because we left therapy. That's the truth.
And part of that truth is that we left for good reasons, for boundaries, for being closer to our family and spending more time with them, instead of driving four hours away and being gone one day a week. That was before the pandemic which seems like a million years ago.
But those are good things. And it's why it was good and right that we left therapy. Which is why it's important we don't go back. To the same therapist, I mean. And why it's good and right that we found a new therapist. Because we do still need therapy. And how all of those things can be true. But, she said, “we need these parts that understand these truths to show up for those parts who don't understand those truth.” And that left me feeling all wobbly and scrambly. Maybe guilty even. Because I'm not showing up for those parts that are hurt and feeling betrayed. And our inner critic can say that it's because we're grieving the therapist from before. But that's a cognitive distortion, not the whole truth, a filter of trauma. The reason I'm not showing up for those parts that don't understand the whole truth is because it's me who left therapy, and me who betrayed them by doing so.
I mean, not really, but that's how it feels. And because feelings are hard, I avoid them. Not intentionally, but almost by default. But avoiding doesn't make things better. And keeping them far away to protect them and keep them safe, doesn't let fresh air into the room. And our inner critic, or other protectors, can be hateful and mean, until it's all confusing. Because you don't know what the truth is anymore and it's so hard to sort out on your own. Which is why we need therapy. And why we need connection with others. And it's also true that that was harder to do during the pandemic. And it made everything worse. Which felt like things were escalating, and dangerous, and life threatening. And it was difficult to get away from that. Because it hurts so much. And that hurt was so big, and so deep.
That felt like a lot to figure out those insights, and walk through the steps of challenging those thoughts. And I thought we were through it. But it's therapy. And so we were just getting started. She asked me, or said she was curious about, why the inner critic, or those protector parts of me, would not want us to talk. And why they would want us to not talk so much that they would tell us things that were not all the way true or scary stories to keep us quiet. And I knew without hesitation that it's because in the past, it was scary and dangerous to talk. Because my abusers made it scary and dangerous to talk. And she pointed out that even when we tried to talk, people were not educated or trained in how to help us, or didn't follow through, or circumstances let us fall through the cracks. And that maybe that's what the last year has felt like. Like us falling through the cracks. And maybe that's why it was so scary, and so triggering. Which makes more sense than I want it to.
So then she asked me, “How does my body feel when I believe it's true that we shouldn't talk and I have to try to keep parts inside and everything locked down.” And I realized that's why I'm exhausted. It isn't because of the children or parenting them on my own while their husband is gone. Because I've been exhausted for a long time trying to turn everything off, trying not to feel, trying to avoid connection. And it's worn me out and left me alone. Which goes back to what we talked about in therapy before about reenacting what I went through as a child by abandoning myself, and isolating myself, from those who care or could help.
So when I thought about that false truth, those lies, that someone told me in the past that I shouldn't talk, or that bad things would happen if I did. And bad things did happen when I did. And when I think about that, for me, the place I feel it is in my chest, like a panic, like it's hard to breathe. And sometimes when it's really bad, I feel it in my hands too, like someone's got a grip on them. Sometimes when it's really, really bad, I can feel heat on my face. Like the flame of a match. She asked me what color it is, that panic in my chest. “I don't have any idea what color it is,” I thought, “How am I supposed to assign it to a color?” So I tried to think of who it was coming from and what color would they be, but that wasn't the same thing. And then I remembered the notebooks from before with the other therapist, and the scribbles that were on some pages in thick black crayon. And so that's what I told her, “it feels like black scribbles.” She said if there's a sound, what would it sound like? And all I could think of was screaming. And she wanted to know what kind of screaming but I couldn't think about what kind of screaming because to me, it wasn't a sound. It was the feeling of the sound that I could feel in my bones before I had my ears. I don't know if I want to know what that sounds like. And yet, somehow, still, every day I hear echoes in my head of that screaming, of children crying, just as much as I hear the others talking, or conversations, or all that evidence of the others that I want to pretend isn't there and certainly would never talk about with another person. Because then they would know how unwell I am and that something's wrong with me. And that I'm broken, shattered into pieces spilled out on the floor and that I've not been able to put myself back together again.
But my therapist said anytime I hear that or feel that, or that panic in my test that's like black scribbles, that's the sign that the critic is near. And that I'm hearing lies I was told in the past that aren't true. And that there are those emotional flashback feelings that are about the past, but not actually happening in the present.
But I've always struggled with how to tell the difference between now time and memory time, especially since losing the therapist from before. And that's a terrifying feeling sometimes. But my therapist said that it's my body who's my friend. And it's my body who will always tell me the truth.
That took me aback. And I'm gonna have to think about that for a while. Because I think I spend a lot of time trying not to be in my body, or feeling like it's not mine. Or that it doesn't fit or I don't fit. Or that I don't belong. But it turns out the reason is because my body is speaking truth. And sometimes the truth is hard to hear. And when that panic comes, and when my body uses my chest to send me a panic to help me pay attention, it turns out I don't want to see. And I'm not good at listening. I want to push it away. I want to shut down. I want to freeze. I want to leave the social situations I'm in. or hide my phone so that I can find it. Or isolate, or put up walls. I can't even speak in those moments. Sometimes I can't even move.
But she says the difference between the past and the present between memory time and now time is that I'm not a child anymore. Which my therapist told me before, but I didn't fully understand. And my therapist today told me it means more than just I have an adult body. It also means I have an adult body with adult resources and adult choices.
So for example, I don't have to make choices or decisions on the spot under pressure. It's okay for me to say that I want to think about it and let you know an answer later. To give myself space and time to practice listening to my body because it will tell me the truth about what I need or don't need. What I want or don't want. And only after receiving that information can I actually speak truth myself, for myself, to myself and to others. She said that I'm not broken. She said there is a wise and intelligent and intuitive soul inside me. And that trauma doesn't get to take that away. She said trauma just muddles the connection so that it's harder for me to find, or hear, or see. Just like living in the rural area out here in the country, where our internet is by satellite and doesn't always work on a cloudy day or when it storms. The trauma is the storm.
And it damages the connection. But it doesn't damage me. And I learned to reconnect by learning to trust my body.
And just like I've learned how in my brain the amygdala is the warning bell that tells me there is danger, that panic that has haunted me for so many years is a warning bell that alerts me the inner critic is nearby. And that what I'm feeling is not actually true. Not in now time. Not in the present. So when that happens, I'm supposed to ask if it's really true and what the evidence is that says so. And whether it's helpful information to me or not. And then tell myself what is true. And notice it in my body, the difference that I feel when I think those things from the inner critic, or when I think those things that are true. And then behave according to how my body feels when it's better, when it tells me the truth. Like how even though it's hard, I feel better when I talked to my therapist instead of shutting down.
And that was a lot to process. Still just trying to talk about therapy, and re engaging in therapy, and trying again, trusting again, when it feels impossible, that no one else will ever be safe, that I never can trust again, that too much has been taken from me that I have to protect the others inside the way they've protected me. But that just puts me in lockdown. And them in quarantine too. It doesn't actually lift the burden, or change things, or help us feel better. And I do want to feel better. So I thought that was a lot for us to talk about in one session. And I know it will take some practice.
But then she said we weren't finished yet. Because there's one more piece about this that's really important. She said, “get your pen. Be ready to write it down. So that all of you know and everyone remembers.” And that got my attention. She said, “we have to care for everybody.” And she said, “the developmental understanding of littles is different from teens and adults.” I started crying. I didn't mean to but it was so unexpected. I don't know that anyone has ever talked to me directly about littles. And the wounds from losing therapy before are so deeply embedded with them. And I've worked so hard to distance myself from that pain. Which meant distancing myself from them. That I think I was honestly shocked as if maybe they didn't exist anymore, and then someone pointed them out. Or maybe, as if no one has seen their pain for the last year, and then someone called it out. She said that for the littles, we have to show up as the most loving and compassionate mother.
And I wept. I wept because I don't know what that is, ‘a compassionate mother.’ I wept because I almost felt it once in therapy from my not mother, my not friend, and now not therapist. I wept because I could feel them feeling her, this new therapist who sees me, who sees us, who sees them, and says we're not broken. That she's here to help. That safety matters. And that we're okay. And that it's right, we're careful, to go slow, and feel safe. She said, “we need to turn to the littles. And tell them that in now time, there is no reason to be scared.” But also to understand why they are, and remind them that we are here to understand them, and care for them, and protect them the way no one ever has.
She said, “you have a right to be seen and to be heard.” And I cried. I cried for a long time. It was maybe the first time in a long time where that deep place of being so very alone, and so very hurt, with such deep grief, was noticed and tended to and responded to and honored.
And I was not alone and my aloneness and that aloneness was not dismissed, or denied, or looked over. I faced it and I felt it. I felt them and my heart broke that I've turned away from them for so long. Turned away from myself for so long. Even while at the very same time, I felt my own comfort for understanding why, and how, and the depth of it.
I know that doesn't undo anything or make all the pain go away. But it made it real somehow, valid somehow, tended to somehow.
And I know that there were parts of me in the last year that overwhelmed me, or felt scary, because they were demanding the right to be seen and heard. But also today, I felt like I was. And that's why I cried. Because I was seen and heard. And because it scares me to even consider trying to do that for the littles or others, to let them be seen or heard. It scares me. But it also saddens me that I haven't. Even while also understanding that I couldn't. Not by myself. It wasn't safe. It requires an other. And I don't know how. Which is also why I need therapy.
And so here I am. Learning to be seen and heard. But also, to see and hear.
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