Do you judge yourself? If so, according to whose rule? Are you harsh or lenient, strict or lax? When did you commence self-scrutiny? Have your standards evolved? How do your rules compare with your parents’? Do you foresee Saint Peter or his equivalent at the end of your time?
Other creatures, best we know, do not weigh evidence or render verdicts about themselves. Dog-pal Henry dislikes disappointing me or Jane, but that’s on account of our scolding, not his conscience. It it’s OK with us, it’s OK with him. Some human adults seem incapable of self-reflection. We elected one as President, strange to say.
Does self-judgment precede or arise from comparing? My guess is the latter. We want what our sibling or a playmate has – a toy, smile, treat. Our privation grieves – what are we, chopped liver? We adjust our behavior to secure what we covet, rebuking ourselves for our failures and inadequacies.
Parental approval is among the prizes we strive for. Nothing feels sweeter than their congratulatory hug. That at least is what I fantasize, for I never received one. My parents believed in critiques, not compliments. When at my mother’s funeral a longtime acquaintance gushed how proud she’d been of me, I figured she was either kidding or gaga. I was 63.
I am morbidly self-critical. You may have noticed. My paltry accomplishments pale beside my purported promise. Jane chides me for beating up on myself: my whining, she cautions, gets wearisome. She’s right. But how does one appeal one’s verdict on oneself? For some folks God functions as their appellate division. My God mostly sighs.
I do not loathe myself. That can be a crippling pathology. I’m just disappointed. How can I be so much less than I had in mind? Overgenerously, I forgive my lapses. “What can I do?” I shrug sheepishly. “I’m stuck with me.”
I envy Henry his lack of conscience. He regrets any malefaction for a nanosecond, then resumes his delight. If only I could be as happy! I am never satisfied. My best could always be better. My worst – let’s not go there.
Oh, to be easy-going! So I say, but do I mean it? My inadequacies occupy me most waking hours, keeping me busy, on the go, on my toes. The word that might be said dangles like Tantalus’ ripe peach or the carrot before the donkey. My best is yet to be, wait and see!
Self-judgment makes being me a riveting adventure. What makes Carll run? Where will he dart next? Will he bring himself to heel or keep playing hooky? My bulging volumes quiver with self-reproach. I can’t wait to learn how my story turns out.
Self-judgment is the human advantage – and our fatal flaw. If we were self-satisfied, would we incessantly inquire, invent, improve? Would we slaughter other humans to bolster our self-esteem or beggar our neighbor or willfully make our planet uninhabitable? Isn’t ambition an attempt to convince our inner jury to acquit?
Notwithstanding material prosperity, we live in an unhappy time. We’re unhappy because we’ve persuaded ourselves we should be happier. Some wanting more and more grab from those who haven’t enough. The war of the strong against the weak is horrible to witness.
What I want is more and more of beauty, grace, kindness, truth, sense, justice, generosity – all synonyms for goodness or what some call God. I want to purge myself of vile and petty desires and infuse myself with zeal to do right. While a disappointment, I am not yet a write-off. I can do and be better. Wait and see.