Maybe You Should Work On That: Voices in My Head and the Opinions of Others
“The voice in my head is something most of us
notice only when we’re stressed, as I definitely was … We spend our whole lives
in the company of such a voice. The voice judges and interprets reality,
determines our reactions, and chatters so constantly that we come to identify
with it: we imagine that we are the
chattering stream of thinking. If you doubt this account of what it’s like
inside your mind, consider the possibility that this might be because you’re
too closely identified with the chatter to notice.”
—Oliver Burkeman, The Antidote: Happiness for People Who Can’t Stand Positive Thinking
Have you ever had someone notice something you’ve done, or something you just naturally do, and when they attempt to pay you a compliment about it, you are so puzzled because that thing you do is actually the result of your mind torturing you? For example, someone says, “Wow! Your handwriting is so beautiful!” and your immediate reaction is to reply, “Thanks! My life has been a silent yet crippling battle with OCD! If my writing isn’t perfect, I get the violent urge to tear up the page and start again!” Or, someone says, “Wow! This room is so clean! You are so good at cleaning and tidying up, great job!” and your immediate reaction is, “Thanks! My brain is so scared of any form of uncertainty that I will do literally anything to make that feeling go away! Hence, everything is spotless!” It’s just a weird occurrence when someone tries to compliment you, a.k.a. say something positive, on an action that you’ve done in reaction to the noise inside your head—for me, even if tidying up does make a room look nice to another set of eyes, it’s just a reminder that I was feeling anxious and instead of trying to deal with that feeling rationally, I decided I was going to compulsively clean up. It’s a very strange feeling when someone compliments you on something you believe you’ve done irrationally. It brings me out of myself and forces me to ask myself some hard questions, almost always ending with the conclusion of, “Maybe you should work on that.”
I don’t consider myself someone who cares about what other people think. In my heart and even in my head, I like to believe that I don’t care. It’s not necessarily that I care what other people think of me, it’s that I care what I think of me. I just never realized that the two were actually mutually exclusive. Until recently—and, quite frankly, probably still a bit now—I take the opinions of others to heart. It’s not that I would do that because I felt I cared what they thought, especially if it was a negative opinion that I could easily flick away by saying they don’t know what they’re talking about. I did that because I genuinely had such a low opinion of myself, inside my head, and I would take the opinions of others—no matter who they were—to heart because I somehow believed they seem to have much more of this thing called life figured out, so they must know more than me. I felt this way because growing up and “becoming an adult” didn’t feel like some sort of historic rite of passage that everyone goes through and comes out smiling on the other side, ready to face the world. I felt like everything was just one weight on top of another and I was being crushed at every turn, with every new adult responsibility. I didn’t want to let go of my inner child but the more I tried to get him back, the more depressed I felt. So whenever someone else—another adult—would express an opinion or a judgment towards something I did or said, my brain’s immediate reaction was to internalize that opinion so strongly because I was convinced everyone else had everything figured out more than I did, because I had absolutely no trust or faith in what I thought I knew. Everything from the moment I got out of bed in the morning was too challenging and too different from anything I thought I knew. But guess what? I know now that nobody has anything all figured out! It’s all one big performance that everyone puts on! Once I began to accept that adulthood is just one big cloud of ambivalence and uncertainty, I began to have more confidence in myself and what I thought. And by having more confidence, I had more trust and faith in myself to figure things out as I go. The reason why it took me so long to figure this out is because I was too closely identified with the voices in my head—the ones that told me I don’t have this figured out, I’m never going to figure this out, and I’m going to be left behind—to notice that I am not those voices. I can exist outside of them.
As much as it’s liberating, it’s also difficult. The voices in our heads are developed from a wide range of different sources, from the time we are children. Some say that the way a parent talks to their child is how their internal voice will come to talk to them, and I think that definitely has some merit. I don’t think my internal voice—which does have a history of being overwhelmingly negative—came from the way my parents spoke to me. I think my negative internal voice came from years of being obsessed with perfection, afraid of uncertainty, and the obsessive-compulsive tasks I would make myself fulfill in order to reassure me that everything would turn out okay. I know now that what song I listened to on the way to school that day had no relation to the fact that I failed the test, but the fact that I couldn’t deal with failure in a healthy way back then drove me into the arms of intrusive thoughts and compulsive rituals. As much as I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong or unhealthy at the time—this action or this ritual is going to guarantee everything turns out fine and I can thus have control over everything, what’s the problem?—I hadn’t yet experienced enough of adulthood to know that’s not how life works. I kept myself wrapped up in a tight bubble of anxiety and OCD that I believed would never burst, because I took every necessary precaution to guarantee that it wouldn’t burst. But, eventually, it did, and I fell hard on my ass with no one to pick me up, because they didn’t know how. No one around me really knew the extent to which I had become so consumed by intrusive thoughts, compulsive rituals, and a near-constant state of unease. Now, I like to acknowledge that a lot of the actions that came from compulsive rituals were born out of a genuine and rational concern for something. My therapist almost always reminds me of that. It’s just that I took it too far. It’s on me. I think it’s important to accept responsibility for things your mind has blown out of proportion, while also going easy on yourself and reminding everyone that this is difficult for me and I am indeed working on it. It’s much easier for me to take a step back now when someone compliments my handwriting or my perfect notetaking and even say thank you, while also trying to not beat myself up for trying so hard to make it look perfect. It’s just who I am, and it also doesn’t have to define me.
People mean well. I know they do. But they can still be shitty. As hard as we try, mental health is still heavily stigmatized and repressed. Sometimes even the most socially and environmentally aware people in the world can make remarks considered triggering to someone who is struggling, and they won’t even realize it. It’s ignorance, but I can’t blame them too much for it. Human beings are naturally afraid of what they can’t understand—it’s just more uncertainty and ambivalence. But you know what? I forgive them. I don’t hold it against them. In the past, I would have internalized what they thought because they’re clearly more successful at adulthood than I am, so naturally they must know more than me. But you know what? They don’t! Age doesn’t always necessarily correspond to knowledge on a certain subject. If you’ve never struggled with mental health or bothered to learn about something that technically doesn’t affect you, you probably won’t know that much about it. Or if you’ve never done that thing, or followed that career path, who are you to pass judgment while I’m trying my best at it? Those kind of people are always going to pass judgment; they’re never going to find an answer that satisfies them. Every day, I’m trying to do the best I can—I’m trying to love myself as I am, all my insecurities, anxieties, imperfections, and everything in between that makes me who I am (and exercise and drink enough water and get at least eight hours of sleep)—and a lot of the time these people who “mean well” are often matching the negative voices inside my head that I work every day at quieting. So you know what? If I can’t ever please you, and I can’t ever please the bitch who lives inside my head, why am I letting what you say get me down? Knowledge comes from experience, and maybe if you haven’t officially experienced what you think you know enough about to give your opinion on it, maybe just don’t say anything! The most underrated sentence in the world is: “I don’t know enough about that subject to give my opinion on it.” Maybe you should work on that.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about being an adult, it’s that everyone is wearing one big mask. No one knows what they’re doing. It’s an illusion; it’s a performance. No one has adulthood completely figured out and there is no one set definition or vision of what adulthood is supposed to look like. Once I truly learned that, I could separate myself from the voices in my head. I could turn down the volume. I could take a look back and realize that the reason I identified so strongly with those voices and that chatter is because it’s been there my entire life—how could I not identify with them? It’s like when you knit a sweater and you pull one thread and the entire thing unravels. I couldn’t unscrew the lid of my mind and throw out what I didn’t need without the entirety of Pandora’s Box being unleashed. I think, without even realizing it, pulling that first thread of an intrusive thought, ritual, or bad habit suddenly forced me to continue unraveling the entire sweater until I’d shined a light on everything I’d been doing that was unhealthy. Once Pandora’s Box has been opened, you can’t shut it again. I can’t go back to who I was or rituals I used to have, because not only did they stop working but I learned that they were never good for me. So now when someone expresses their opinion on something I’ve done or tries to pay me a compliment on my obsessive handwriting, I’ve unlocked the key to having more trust and faith in what I think. They don’t have life figured out any more than I do, and even if they did, who cares? Why do you care what they think? You’re you and I’m me. You’ll do you, and I’ll continue my best at doing me.
“ ‘Tiffany, everyone has some version of this in their life. Everyone has their own personal pain and their own demons, and no one will talk about it, and that’s why they never get better. They’re all afraid to talk about it.’ I guess I’m not afraid to talk about it. It just hurts a lot when I do.”
—Tiffany Haddish, The Last Black Unicorn
(Recommended listening for this essay: “Voices in My Head” by Ashley Tisdale, “Bastards” by Kesha, “Tiny Victories” by Christina Perri, “Drew Barrymore” by SZA, and “You Gotta Be” by Des’ree)
Follow It's Not That Deep on Instagram — @areyouthereanxiety — and listen to my playlist of mental health songs on Spotify and Apple Music
Have you ever had someone notice something you’ve done, or something you just naturally do, and when they attempt to pay you a compliment about it, you are so puzzled because that thing you do is actually the result of your mind torturing you? For example, someone says, “Wow! Your handwriting is so beautiful!” and your immediate reaction is to reply, “Thanks! My life has been a silent yet crippling battle with OCD! If my writing isn’t perfect, I get the violent urge to tear up the page and start again!” Or, someone says, “Wow! This room is so clean! You are so good at cleaning and tidying up, great job!” and your immediate reaction is, “Thanks! My brain is so scared of any form of uncertainty that I will do literally anything to make that feeling go away! Hence, everything is spotless!” It’s just a weird occurrence when someone tries to compliment you, a.k.a. say something positive, on an action that you’ve done in reaction to the noise inside your head—for me, even if tidying up does make a room look nice to another set of eyes, it’s just a reminder that I was feeling anxious and instead of trying to deal with that feeling rationally, I decided I was going to compulsively clean up. It’s a very strange feeling when someone compliments you on something you believe you’ve done irrationally. It brings me out of myself and forces me to ask myself some hard questions, almost always ending with the conclusion of, “Maybe you should work on that.”
I don’t consider myself someone who cares about what other people think. In my heart and even in my head, I like to believe that I don’t care. It’s not necessarily that I care what other people think of me, it’s that I care what I think of me. I just never realized that the two were actually mutually exclusive. Until recently—and, quite frankly, probably still a bit now—I take the opinions of others to heart. It’s not that I would do that because I felt I cared what they thought, especially if it was a negative opinion that I could easily flick away by saying they don’t know what they’re talking about. I did that because I genuinely had such a low opinion of myself, inside my head, and I would take the opinions of others—no matter who they were—to heart because I somehow believed they seem to have much more of this thing called life figured out, so they must know more than me. I felt this way because growing up and “becoming an adult” didn’t feel like some sort of historic rite of passage that everyone goes through and comes out smiling on the other side, ready to face the world. I felt like everything was just one weight on top of another and I was being crushed at every turn, with every new adult responsibility. I didn’t want to let go of my inner child but the more I tried to get him back, the more depressed I felt. So whenever someone else—another adult—would express an opinion or a judgment towards something I did or said, my brain’s immediate reaction was to internalize that opinion so strongly because I was convinced everyone else had everything figured out more than I did, because I had absolutely no trust or faith in what I thought I knew. Everything from the moment I got out of bed in the morning was too challenging and too different from anything I thought I knew. But guess what? I know now that nobody has anything all figured out! It’s all one big performance that everyone puts on! Once I began to accept that adulthood is just one big cloud of ambivalence and uncertainty, I began to have more confidence in myself and what I thought. And by having more confidence, I had more trust and faith in myself to figure things out as I go. The reason why it took me so long to figure this out is because I was too closely identified with the voices in my head—the ones that told me I don’t have this figured out, I’m never going to figure this out, and I’m going to be left behind—to notice that I am not those voices. I can exist outside of them.
As much as it’s liberating, it’s also difficult. The voices in our heads are developed from a wide range of different sources, from the time we are children. Some say that the way a parent talks to their child is how their internal voice will come to talk to them, and I think that definitely has some merit. I don’t think my internal voice—which does have a history of being overwhelmingly negative—came from the way my parents spoke to me. I think my negative internal voice came from years of being obsessed with perfection, afraid of uncertainty, and the obsessive-compulsive tasks I would make myself fulfill in order to reassure me that everything would turn out okay. I know now that what song I listened to on the way to school that day had no relation to the fact that I failed the test, but the fact that I couldn’t deal with failure in a healthy way back then drove me into the arms of intrusive thoughts and compulsive rituals. As much as I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong or unhealthy at the time—this action or this ritual is going to guarantee everything turns out fine and I can thus have control over everything, what’s the problem?—I hadn’t yet experienced enough of adulthood to know that’s not how life works. I kept myself wrapped up in a tight bubble of anxiety and OCD that I believed would never burst, because I took every necessary precaution to guarantee that it wouldn’t burst. But, eventually, it did, and I fell hard on my ass with no one to pick me up, because they didn’t know how. No one around me really knew the extent to which I had become so consumed by intrusive thoughts, compulsive rituals, and a near-constant state of unease. Now, I like to acknowledge that a lot of the actions that came from compulsive rituals were born out of a genuine and rational concern for something. My therapist almost always reminds me of that. It’s just that I took it too far. It’s on me. I think it’s important to accept responsibility for things your mind has blown out of proportion, while also going easy on yourself and reminding everyone that this is difficult for me and I am indeed working on it. It’s much easier for me to take a step back now when someone compliments my handwriting or my perfect notetaking and even say thank you, while also trying to not beat myself up for trying so hard to make it look perfect. It’s just who I am, and it also doesn’t have to define me.
People mean well. I know they do. But they can still be shitty. As hard as we try, mental health is still heavily stigmatized and repressed. Sometimes even the most socially and environmentally aware people in the world can make remarks considered triggering to someone who is struggling, and they won’t even realize it. It’s ignorance, but I can’t blame them too much for it. Human beings are naturally afraid of what they can’t understand—it’s just more uncertainty and ambivalence. But you know what? I forgive them. I don’t hold it against them. In the past, I would have internalized what they thought because they’re clearly more successful at adulthood than I am, so naturally they must know more than me. But you know what? They don’t! Age doesn’t always necessarily correspond to knowledge on a certain subject. If you’ve never struggled with mental health or bothered to learn about something that technically doesn’t affect you, you probably won’t know that much about it. Or if you’ve never done that thing, or followed that career path, who are you to pass judgment while I’m trying my best at it? Those kind of people are always going to pass judgment; they’re never going to find an answer that satisfies them. Every day, I’m trying to do the best I can—I’m trying to love myself as I am, all my insecurities, anxieties, imperfections, and everything in between that makes me who I am (and exercise and drink enough water and get at least eight hours of sleep)—and a lot of the time these people who “mean well” are often matching the negative voices inside my head that I work every day at quieting. So you know what? If I can’t ever please you, and I can’t ever please the bitch who lives inside my head, why am I letting what you say get me down? Knowledge comes from experience, and maybe if you haven’t officially experienced what you think you know enough about to give your opinion on it, maybe just don’t say anything! The most underrated sentence in the world is: “I don’t know enough about that subject to give my opinion on it.” Maybe you should work on that.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about being an adult, it’s that everyone is wearing one big mask. No one knows what they’re doing. It’s an illusion; it’s a performance. No one has adulthood completely figured out and there is no one set definition or vision of what adulthood is supposed to look like. Once I truly learned that, I could separate myself from the voices in my head. I could turn down the volume. I could take a look back and realize that the reason I identified so strongly with those voices and that chatter is because it’s been there my entire life—how could I not identify with them? It’s like when you knit a sweater and you pull one thread and the entire thing unravels. I couldn’t unscrew the lid of my mind and throw out what I didn’t need without the entirety of Pandora’s Box being unleashed. I think, without even realizing it, pulling that first thread of an intrusive thought, ritual, or bad habit suddenly forced me to continue unraveling the entire sweater until I’d shined a light on everything I’d been doing that was unhealthy. Once Pandora’s Box has been opened, you can’t shut it again. I can’t go back to who I was or rituals I used to have, because not only did they stop working but I learned that they were never good for me. So now when someone expresses their opinion on something I’ve done or tries to pay me a compliment on my obsessive handwriting, I’ve unlocked the key to having more trust and faith in what I think. They don’t have life figured out any more than I do, and even if they did, who cares? Why do you care what they think? You’re you and I’m me. You’ll do you, and I’ll continue my best at doing me.
“ ‘Tiffany, everyone has some version of this in their life. Everyone has their own personal pain and their own demons, and no one will talk about it, and that’s why they never get better. They’re all afraid to talk about it.’ I guess I’m not afraid to talk about it. It just hurts a lot when I do.”
—Tiffany Haddish, The Last Black Unicorn
(Recommended listening for this essay: “Voices in My Head” by Ashley Tisdale, “Bastards” by Kesha, “Tiny Victories” by Christina Perri, “Drew Barrymore” by SZA, and “You Gotta Be” by Des’ree)
Follow It's Not That Deep on Instagram — @areyouthereanxiety — and listen to my playlist of mental health songs on Spotify and Apple Music
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