I used to be a real jerk to myself

It wasn’t easy, but I finally broke the habit.

I used to be really, really good at being mean to myself. I would wield the sharpest, most painful words I could muster, cutting myself down with insults and lies. Any time I made a mistake or did something embarrassing, I would berate myself—reminding myself and everyone around me what a worthless, terrible, awful, ugly human being I was. 

This self-inflicted verbal abuse began in my teenage years. I wish I could say that I grew out of it once I became an adult, but alas. I indulged in self-shaming spirals for well more than a decade. If there was an award for making yourself feel despicable, I would have been a top contender.

Needless to say, this was not one of my more charming qualities. It was something that I tried to conceal; I only revealed my intense self-hatred to the people closest to me.

But despite hiding this behavior, I never tried to stop it. A small part of me believed that my harsh words were necessary—that they would ultimately make me a better version of myself. A bigger part of me didn’t know how to quit. My negative self-talk felt like a habit that was too big to break.

Jamie and I met as freshmen in college. We lived a couple dorm rooms apart from each other and became fast friends. I loved spending time with Jamie, and was careful to keep my self-hatred hidden from him—or so I thought.

One day, after telling a funny story about something that happened to me, Jamie smiled, then paused. 

“You’re a great storyteller,” he said. “But you always seem to focus on details that make you sound stupid. Why do you do that?”

I never realized that I did this, much less that someone would notice. But he was right. Most of my stories were self-deprecating. I solely focused on laughs, and didn’t mind if I was the butt of the joke. I never considered that someone else might mind on my behalf.

Jamie and I quickly became best friends. By the time we finally began dating, it was clear that we were destined to be together for the long haul. Less than a year later, when we were still college students, we got engaged. A year and a half after that, we tied the knot.

Throughout our marriage, Jamie witnessed how intense my self-deprecation could be. He saw the ways I punished myself with my words, how I’d spiral in a wave of self-hatred. Only now do I realize that, through those torrents of terrible words, I wasn’t just hurting myself. I was hurting him, too.

Jamie, bless him, took it upon himself to try to change this habit of mine. He’d remind me, whenever he could, of how much he loved me and of the wonderful qualities he saw in me. Any time he gave me a card or letter, he’d fill it with exuberant descriptors—written proof of how great I was. And when all else failed, he’d enlist friends to remind me how much I was loved.

His efforts would work—temporarily. I would apologize for saying such awful things about myself. I’d reluctantly agree that I wasn’t the worst person in the world. I’d tell him that I’d try to be kinder to myself.

“I wish you could see yourself how I see you,” Jamie would always say. I lost track of how many times he said that.

I shared a version of this story to my therapist last week. “When did you stop being mean to yourself?” she asked.

“When Jamie died,” I told her.

The morning after Jamie died, I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror for a long time. I looked haggard and pale. My eyes were swollen. I felt hungover and confused.

But I didn’t say or think a mean word to myself. Instead, I heard Jamie’s voice—clear as ever. You have to be kind to yourself now.

When someone you love dies, you have several big decisions to make, including whether you will live in the past or the present. What seems like an obvious choice to an outsider can be especially difficult and confusing for the griever. It’s tempting to stay stuck in the past, telling yourself that it’s the most obvious way to keep your loved one close.

As I made my way through the fog of early grief, I kept coming back to those words. You have to be kind to yourself. At some point, it clicked: The best way I could honor Jamie and keep him close was to love myself the way that he loved me.

Slowly but surely, I started to talk to myself the way that Jamie talked about me. I practiced saying nice things to myself. I’d stop myself whenever I was at risk of falling into a spiral of self-hatred. Sometimes, on especially hard days, I’d try to imagine what Jamie would say and give myself a pep talk like he would.

I was living in the present and learning how to be kind to myself, all on my own.

When Billy and I started seriously dating, I would sometimes slip into old habits. As we got closer, my negative words threatened to return. In a way, it felt like I was subconsciously testing our bond: Would Billy also step in to tell me that all the horrible things I was saying were wrong?

Billy handled the situation differently than Jamie did. He made it clear that it wasn’t his role to stop my negative self-talk—it was mine. He also made it clear that he would be by my side as I worked through these issues. He would gladly hold my hand, but it was on me to do the work.

This was a different kind of approach, but the goal was the same. Billy saw plenty of wonderful things in me. He wanted me to see those things too.

Billy’s stance reminded me of the realization I had after Jamie died. You have to be kind to yourself. Even in this new relationship, I could carry Jamie’s words with me. His voice could guide me. This time around, I could do things right.

Being consistently kind to myself wasn’t easy; even now, I still sometimes stumble. Just like I suspected early on, my negative self-talk was a hard habit to break. But I had three reasons to stick to it: to keep Jamie close, to keep Billy close, and—most importantly of all—to love myself like I deserved to be loved.

Yesterday was Jamie’s birthday. He would have turned 37. Ten days before that was my daughter’s birthday. She turned one.

Sometimes, my grief-brain jumbles Jamie’s death together with my daughter’s birth. They were both scary, life-altering events that I experienced in a hospital. More than that, though, I think about how much Jamie would love her. I think about what a good dad he would have been. Sometimes, as confusing as it is, I even think about how the gap in my daughter’s two front teeth looks so much like the gap in Jamie’s smile.

I also think about how much Jamie would love Billy. How much they would have in common, how many Katie stories they’d have to trade, how many jokes they would share. I wonder what Jamie would think of Billy’s approach to self-love—his belief that it’s only a gift I can give myself. I think he’d be happy to see me with someone who is teaching me to stand on my own.

Now that I’m a parent, I have another giant reason to be kind to myself. I can teach my daughter what self-love looks like; how the love you have for yourself is more important than any other love out there. And just like Billy has taught me, I can teach her that the most valuable relationship is the one you have with yourself.

I hate that Jamie only got 32 years on earth. I hate that he can’t celebrate this version of me. I hate that he is gone. But I love that his legacy of kindness lives on.

Finally, I can see myself the way that he saw me.

xoxo
KHG

p.s. Years ago, my friend Roy decided that ladybugs remind him of Jamie. Now, whenever I see a ladybug, I think of Jamie. Those little red bugs are yet another reminder to be kind to myself.

What reminds you of someone you miss? Do cardinals in the winter make you think of your late grandmother? Does a song or saying bring back memories of your best friend? I would love to hear more about the symbols of the people you miss most—and what those symbols remind you of. You can share them with me by replying to this email, sending me a message, or leaving a comment.

As always, reader replies will be part of Friday’s newsletter, which is for paying subscribers.

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My Sweet Dumb Brain is written by Katie Hawkins-Gaar. It’s edited by Rebecca Coates, who is, thankfully, much kinder to herself these days, too. It takes a lot of mindfulness and practice, but it’s undoubtedly worth the effort. Ladybug photos by Martin Oslic, Greg Rosenke, and John Thomas on Unsplash.