Ask A.J. is Slate’s new advice column on addiction, recovery, and how to hate yourself less. Submit a question here. It’s anonymous!
Dear A.J.,
I’ve hated myself in and out since I was a child. Basically, it comes from my upbringing and the way my mother viewed herself, but it has really cemented as an adult. I hate my appearance in particular, and all this low self-worth makes it hard to do things that are good for me or see the point in changing. Due to what we now know is a quirk of how my brain works, I struggle with “fake it till you make it”–type things, like pretending that I don’t think I’m ugly or a crap, boring person. I’ve struggled with self-neglect, my relationship with my husband, my ability to have sex (I find my own body gross), and picking up hobbies and fun things.
I’ve seen a therapist, have tried antidepressants, and have tools to stop things from getting really bad. Still, I would love to be able to find the motivation to have a morning routine or try something new without beating myself up for not being immediately good at it. Do affirmations work eventually without feeling silly? Most of all, I would like to find a way to stop feeling as if it’s cringe when I do things (“Ugh, imagine what people think when they see me walking!”).
Do you have any advice? I’m not looking for a magic cure, but it would be nice to know if there’s anything I can do to chip away at the wall of loathing I’ve built around myself.
—Small Victories
Dear Small Victories,
I hate that you feel this way because, dammit, I feel this way, and I know what a sorrowful existence it is. As much as I’m extremely proud of my sobriety, my self-esteem took a severe hit after I cut out all the drinking, drugs, and cigarettes. Whatever insecurities I’d covered up with my drunken persona became stark and debilitating in the aftermath. Nondrunk me became 6 inches shorter, my nose got 3 inches larger, my skin became dry, and my hair went gray—you get the idea. Being forced to look at myself in the mirror as I brushed my teeth in the morning was unbearable. (And, man: my teeth! They look like something you’d find inside a pirate’s skull.)
And it’s not just my physical appearance. In my former life, I had been very attached to my identity as a “writer who lived in New York City,” and I would proudly tell anyone who asked because I thought that it made me an exciting and interesting person to talk to. I could say things like “I had an op-ed published in the New York Times” or “I did an awesome article about betting on the bird flu for Salon.com” or “I was the top page-view leader this month thanks to a video I posted of a man getting hit in the crotch with a football.”
But now, even though I write a recovery newsletter and talk about recovery on a podcast (and write a well-meaning advice column that is still very much a work in progress), on some occasions I’ve told people I now work in the “mental health space,” a statement that, although somewhat true, is mostly a lie. Why do I feel as if being a New York City writer gives me instant cachet, whereas writing a newsletter about my recovery is lame? Because I assume that people will judge me and think, Oh, he’s some unemployable wash-up who has to resort to pretending to help other people in order to not be a total loser. Again, I don’t feel this way all the time, but regrettably, I have in the recent past. I will in the not-distant future.
I shouldn’t care this much what others think. I’m proud of what I do—I think it’s interesting and exciting, and that should be the only opinion that matters. Blackbird Spyplane probably won’t want to ask me about my leisure wear, but my life is different now because I’m different. Still, I’m constantly battling this identity crisis. I must admit that part of me wants that sort of external validation from people I feel are cool and sexy because then I’ll feel cool and sexy. And once I secure the priceless approval of other people, then I’ll be happy. Right?
Come on. We know better. Feeling proud of yourself, confident, and happy is an inside job with an abysmal hourly wage and minimal bathroom breaks. But if I work hard at it, I’ll get to the real me and give myself a raise. Maybe a matching 401(k) plan. A free gym membership. Even a pancake machine at the office. To reference that famous poem by Maggie Smith, I’m gonna make this place beautiful.
But also, do you remember reading about Bradley Cooper meeting with Lady Gaga to do a screen test for A Star Is Born? Before they started, he said something truly deranged to her, like “No artifice,” as he wiped the makeup off her face. That was one of the most cringe-inducing things I’ve ever heard (though it still doesn’t crack my top three cringe-inducing things that Bradley Cooper has done since he has become a world-famous movie actor). But for our purposes—me and you, Small Victories—we are officially here to listen to Coops, scrape away the artifice of our loathsomeness, and love ourselves properly.
One way I do that is by being consistent with the daily practice of meditation and gratitude journals. I know! GROSS. But hear me out—this doesn’t require a complete life overhaul. Don’t buy $100 meditation cushions for a prayer room, and don’t stock up on leather journals and first-edition Pema Chödrön books (not yet, at least). Still, you must be consistent with this ritual. Start with one minute a day. Just one minute of sitting still and not letting your brain torment you about your looks or your coolness. If you commit to one minute of fighting back silently in a room away from everyone—hell, even in your car in a parking lot—each day for a year, I bet you’ll be less inhibited about your self-improvement goals. A new layer of self-esteem will surface. Your mind will slow down, and you’ll be kinder to yourself. For the love of God, don’t rush into a 20-minute or even a two-minute meditation practice—let’s start with one merciful minute and stick to it. Does that sound reasonable? And remember: You’re not supposed to be good at this immediately. You have my permission to fail at this frequently, but you must do it every day for a year.
The best way for me to not hate myself, though, is—again, cringe warning—helping others. This may seem daunting, but in order to build yourself up, you need to put yourself out there and confront your fear of being judged for your earnestness. Participate in food drives for homelessness, protest against world events that are cruel and inhumane, run a 5K for ALS—find something where you need to show up, in person, with humility and selflessness to become part of what I’m going to lazily refer to as “the greater good.” Because I can guarantee that when you aim to restore the dignity of others, you’ll restore dignity in yourself.
If you’re not ready to go full-on humanitarian just yet, let’s start here: Express genuine vulnerability to another person singularly pummeled by their own negative self-talk so that they don’t feel as alone in the world. That one little act of bravery throws a rope down to someone else trapped in a well and pulls them to safety. And today that person is me. So, thanks for your share—and thanks for the rope. I needed you today.
—A.J.
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