Criticism tastes like Xanax
After briefly [or should I say constantly] being possessed by the capitalist poltergeist as I searched for Telegram groups in my city – I soon realized how I missed an opportunity to make “easy money”. I could have sold my Xanax leftovers on the black market.
My inner voice and I had a conversation about it. We agreed on not selling. How could we put someone else in danger by giving them access to a highly addictive substance, we asked ourselves. The capitalist strings on us began to pull, but we did not waver.
Anyway, most people know Xanax in the round shape of a pill.[mfn]How on Earth could I know that?[/mfn] My psychiatrist prescribed me Xanax drops. They are so bitter my doctor even advised me to have a little chocolate ready to eat right after. It is like drinking a shot of Angostura bitters. That is how criticism tastes to me- “if you’re going to do something, do it well or don’t do it at all”, “you should be more like Perencito’s daughter”, “if you would like a present, please write a two-page essay on why you deserve it” ____________________________________Feel free to fill in the gap with your own memories of criticism at home.
As the years pass, the bitterness from constant criticism is not so heinous anymore. That is because I, too, became bitter, and how can water tell it is wet, right?[mfn]Long time ago I read that water is not wet, instead it adheres. Look that up if you will.[/mfn] Once the bitterness comes in, it is difficult to let go of. So now you start criticizing yourself
It becomes harder to gulp the bitterness: It is reverse constipation. Instead of sitting on the toilet, sweating cold, pushing as hard as you can, almost birthing the waste inside of you. Instead of sitting, you stand, you lie down, you walk, you breathe. You quasi suffocate in a desperate attempt to swallow the bitterness of self criticism and harsh judgment.
Once you almost suffocate, the survival instinct wakes up. Why should you carry the burden of criticism all by yourself? Nonsense. Quatsch! Like the Germans like to say. Now let the Xanax spread his wings, grow a cloaca, fly all over the place and poop little pebbles of sharp judgment.
Your friends? They just screamed in disgust as a putrid tiny turd landed on their head. They suck anyway, says the judgy voice in your head. The people on the streets all tripped and fell. Immovable huge dung appeared on the floor as you thought to yourself “look at them, so happy in this ridiculous world. How primitive of them to enjoy this tiresome cycle of emptiness”. The food someone took time to prepare for you bores your taste buds in advance. You think of the food and taste it: What’s the point in culinary redundancy?
The smile of your loved ones, the excitement of a furry soul, the joy, the sadness
The bitterness got to them. It demands more. It is never enough. So you continue to endlessly quasi suffocate, a little faster on Mondays. It-does-not-stop. That, however, is what it would like you to believe. The bitterness wants you to think there is no you without it. It is wrong. You have proved it wrong. Every time you do is a victory for you.
Every time you see the criticism coming from afar is a win for you. And every time you stop it from pooping all over your life, you are one step closer to a brown pebble-free road. You can walk, roll, sit on a bench or simply stand. The streets are clear. The primitive is no more. You do not fall into the reverse, life-sucking constipation cycle. You do not gulp as hard. You become even a little lighter. No more cracks under your feet. The angostura shot is not your daily bread [for a lack of a non-christian expression].
When you are not so busy trying to breathe, there are more flavor profiles to life. You are even in the mood for something different. Your throat gets a little vacation from all that hard work.
So here it is to you, to me, to us. Let us pour the Xanax down the drain and drink something else instead. Sweet? Tangy? Sparkling? Maybe the possibilities are endless. Or not. We decide.