David McElroy

making sense of a dysfunctional culture

fear

Why do we stay in prison when there’s no lock holding us there?

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One of the restaurants where I go a lot lately is badly managed. I really like some of the employees and they talk with me about their frustrations quite a bit.

A few days ago, a couple of the employees had joined me at my table during their break. They were telling me the latest outrages they faced.

“Why in the world do they stay here if they’re so unhappy?” I thought to myself. I didn’t want to say that to them and sound condescending, but I was judging them for staying where they clearly didn’t want to be.

For a moment, I felt a little smug (and condescending), but then the smile disappeared from my face. In a painful flash, I saw my hypocrisy and felt really uncomfortable.

Why do people stay in places where they’re unhappy? I shouldn’t be pointing a finger at them. My smug question should be directed at myself.

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What if other people see you or hear you differently than you do?

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I had just placed my lunch order at a fast food drive-through Thursday when I heard one of the employees on the speaker say to another, “Hey, come here and listen to this guy!” I drove on up the window and the woman was smiling as she took my card.

“Are you a news anchor or a radio host?” she asked.

Another woman who was walking up behind her said, “I recognize your voice but I don’t know what station.”

After I assured them that I don’t do anything on radio or TV, they told me that’s what I ought to be doing. They were convinced they knew me.

I drove away feeling amused and perplexed. This has happened to me quite often over the years — and it makes no sense to me, because I don’t see or hear anything in myself which looks or sounds like television or radio folks.

But as I thought about it later in the day, a sobering thought hit me. What if other people are right about me — and I’m the one who’s wrong?

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I’m trying to silence inner critic who says I ought to be perfect

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For years, I wasn’t even conscious of the voice, but it was always there.

“You should have seen that!”

Every time I made an error — of any kind — the voice told me what I “should have” seen or done or not done. The voice knew everything I should have done. Its standard was perfection.

If I missed a question on a test in high school, the voice was outraged. If it was a complicated algebra problem and I overlooked a tiny key detail in the setup — causing me to get the answer wrong — the voice was angry. It wasn’t a chance to learn where pitfalls were. It was a reason to criticize myself, even if I outscored everyone else on the test, because I hadn’t been perfect.

When I played a game — whether it was racquetball or a word game — every mistake was a reason for outrage.

“Why didn’t you see that? What’s wrong with you?!”

When I used to play racquetball, I ruined several rackets in frustration with myself. I was never angry with an opponent. Always with myself. And without realizing it, I slowly taught myself that my very human mistakes meant I was irredeemably broken.

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