Mini-me, the maniac

I’ve envisioned that my inner critic lives in an undecorated basement suite in the bottom of my mind. He is constantly on edge, moody and wields a knife. He reminds me of Derek from the Good Place: an unfinished algorithm, wildly unpredictable, humorously over-devoted. He’s my ego, constantly protective and over-reacting.

Moments will arise where I sense my inner critic lunging at me, and I’ll visualize a scene in that poorly-lit, unrenovated basement suite. A rectangular dining room table is between us. Usually, he’s stabbing his knife into the table and yelling about something.

“Okay, alright, I hear you,” I’ll say. “It sounds like you really care about…” and I’ll fill in the blanks.

“Yes!” he’ll say, and slump into the chair, a little more open to dialogue.

And we’ll have a made-up conversation about the grievance he’s advocating for. I’ll let him know I hear him, I’ll avoid stating that his claims are absurd — I’ll hear him out, and ask clarifying questions.

This elaborate scheme with …