The following entry is not mine. It is from a post on Wentworth Miller's Facebook page. Anxiety and Depression can sometimes go hand in hand. Their tactics...very similar.
This. This below. This is how I feel when it comes to self-talk. The bank full of 40 years worth of vicious coins. I have those. They may not scream "death," but they scream
ugly. They scream
negative. They scream
loser. They scream that I will
fail at all things, because underneath the shiny outside, I am all
rotten and
decay on the inside.
Thank you, Mr. Miller for speaking out on mental health and inspiring those of us who struggle daily to function
.
---
A Good Talking To by Wentworth Miller
"There is no such thing as a neutral word...
Either you are speaking life... Or you are speaking death..."
I heard somebody say that once. And I've never forgotten it.
I've had a lot of death spoken into me over the years. Harsh
words. From multiple directions. Aimed in my direction. And at some point in
there I guess I grabbed the baton. Started speaking death into myself.
There are things I've said to myself, about myself, in my
car/apartment/shower that I wouldn't dream of repeating in public. That if I
saw written in a book or heard on TV I'd think, "horrible."
"Abusive." "Not okay." Words that speak - that have
literally encouraged - death.
If I heard a parent say to their kid the things I used to
say to myself on a regular basis, I'd call the cops. See to it that child was
removed from the home.
And that's just what I've said out loud.
In my head it's a whole other story.
In my head I host a perpetual chorus, a gaggle of voices -
some strident, some seductive, some sounding like specific individuals and
others like nobody in particular - that can be relied on to say the exact wrong
thing at the exact wrong time. Disabling me. Unmanning me. Reminding me of my
place (small, in the shadows) in the scheme of things.
I know this is true for other people too. Because I've heard
them make the same complaint. They've got voices in their heads they can't get
rid of. Try as they might. Bigoted. Belittling. Shaming. Voices that sound
suspiciously like their parents or their peers. Like a former teacher or boss.
Or maybe an ex. Or exes plural.
Well if you're one of those people I've got bad news for
you. I don't think those voices are going away. I don't think there's any
cutting them off or tuning them out. I think they're there to stay.
Speaking death.
So what to do?
The picture I always picture is a bank vault, stacked floor
to ceiling with coins, all of them slicked with something black and shiny.
Viscous. And each of these coins represents a word. And that word is death.
And there are thousands of them. These coins. Saved up over
the 40+ years I've been alive on this planet.
And this vault - this account - is in my name. It belongs to
me. Interest constantly accruing.
But there's a second vault. Same dimensions but nearly
empty. Just a handful of coins lying in the corner.
And these are made of gold. And they speak life.
Some of these gold coins were put here by others. The rest
were put here by me. But their number is few.
I've come to believe it's my duty - my responsibility - to
fill this second vault. My duty to speak life into myself until these gold
coins balance and finally outnumber the coins in that other vault. The ones
that speak death.
Okay. Great. How is that done?
Every day, several times a day, I say nice things to myself.
Seriously.
I talk to myself.
I talk to myself about the things in my life that I
appreciate. The people and the experiences I'm grateful for. What I'd like to
see happen for me and for those I care about.
I speak words that are warm. Generous. Forgiving. Words that
speak less to "self-esteem" and more to self-compassion. I speak to
myself like I'd speak to a cherished friend. Or like I'd want that cherished
friend to speak to me.
I do it in the car, I do it in the apartment, I do it in the
shower.
You can call it prayer. You can call it positive
affirmation. You can call it cornball.
I call it life-saving. Or maybe life savings.
When I first started this practice I didn't even necessarily
believe most of the loving things I would say to myself. But belief isn't
necessary. Repetition is.
Repetition, for me, is the key.
You see I'm fairly positive I didn't come into this world
believing that I was too much or less than or not enough. I don't think I came
into this world with a hateful chorus echoing in my head. It was by virtue of
repetition, because I heard these lies over and over again, that I eventually
came to believe - or at least be open to the possibility - that they were true.
Well if that's the case I can play that game too. I can use
the same principle - repetition - to balance the scales.
So I've been saying nice things to myself. Lots of them. All
the time. Things that won't be revealed here because they're private. They
belong to me and me alone.
But I'll tell you something miraculous. Some of the things
I've been saying to myself (most of which I didn't, at first, believe to be
true) I've started hearing in my head. Unsolicited. It would seem I've added a
few new members to that mental chorus. Because now, when the more veteran
members start in with their nagging/limiting/discrediting, someone answers
back.
It's like I'm creating a new theme song for myself. Slowly
but surely. An upgraded mental playlist offering support and assurance instead
of sabotage and upset.
(On a side note, this is pretty much the same thing I do as
an actor. When I get a new part I take the lines - written by someone else,
about a character and a story completely unrelated to me - and I memorize them
by repeating them out loud. With every repetition these foreign words and
phrases become more and more familiar, gathering weight and meaning and texture
until they're a part of me. Personalized. Ready to be spoken and brought to
life when the cameras roll.)
I'll be honest with you - I'm not always in the mood to say
nice things to myself. Sometimes I'm tired. Sometimes, yes, it feels a little
silly. Sometimes it feels like I'm just going through the motions, like there's
nothing behind the words as I say them. No energy. No passion. No enthusiasm.
Sometimes they're just... words.
But on those days when I find I'm not in the mood, when it
feels like I can't be bothered to give breath to my loving thoughts and wants
for myself and others, I think of the death vault. Its dark coins stacked high.
Four decades' worth. I think about how long it's going to take me to balance
that out. How many deposits I'll need to make in that other vault, the one that
speaks life. I remind myself that I've got my work cut out for me. And that I'd
better get to it.
Then I open my mouth to speak. And when I speak, I speak
life.
