The Bitch Within

I’m not a bitch.  I’m a nice person, seriously.  One time I forced myself to stay awake all night to monitor the breathing of my frighteningly drunk little sister.  Another, I hauled my sorry ass out of bed to rescue a friend who’d broken down.  And I try really hard to sound captivated whenever my boyfriend talks, because I feel like it would be nice to have a captivated girlfriend.  On a scale of one to Mother Teresa, I reckon I’d score pretty well.

But I’ve got a secret.  A secret bitch.  She comes with me everywhere, and despite several valiant attempts, I can’t for the life of me get rid of her.  She’s wedged in my brain amongst the worries about not being good enough and the remembering to put the rubbish out.  Her name is Claire, and I hate her.  

The other day a friend of mine gave me a piece of her writing to have a look at.  I’ve clocked up a very minor degree of success in my dogged endeavour to become an Actual Writer.  This, apparently, qualifies me to cast my eye over the work of others and give something resembling sound advice on where they might improve it.  Now, I haven’t learned much in my 27 years.  But I’ve learned this:  When a friend passes on their writing for ‘suggestions’, the suggestion they want is, ‘Wow!  This is fantastic!  Enthralling!  And surprisingly professional considering it’s the first thing you’ve ever written!’  Unless you want to sink the friendship, that’s what you should say.  

Enter Claire.  While I was skimming the work, she insisted on reading over my shoulder.  ‘What an infantile attempt at dialogue!’  She laughed.

‘Shut up!’  I hissed at her.  ‘Don’t you dare get involved when I give the spiel.’

Trying my best to ignore her incessant mutterings, I reached the end of the piece and launched into encouragement mode.  ‘It’s great!’  I beamed.  ‘Love the use of metaphor!’  

My friend looked suitably spurred on, and all was right in the world.  Well, it would have been, if Claire hadn’t already smelt blood.  ‘You’re not even going to mention the clichés?’  She chastised.  ‘Or the over use of adverbs?’  

I would really love to recount at this point my courageous vanquishing of Claire’s mortal soul.  But that’s not what happened.  The truth is, she’s got kind of a hold on me.  While my friend was manoeuvring the conversation in the direction of her dead cat, I was being methodically lured to the dark side.  ‘You should at least give her some constructive criticism.’  Said Claire, her tone now deceptively reasonable.  ‘Mention something about the length of sentences.  It would be helpful.’

This is where she gets me.  She masquerades as a well-intentioned informant just long enough for me to make the tortured decision that yes, I’m sure, that is actually MY idea.  It’s my very own, very kind idea, so I’d better say it.

‘Sorry to digress.’  I blurted.  ‘But I’ve just thought of a couple of tiny things you might want to change in that piece.’

My friend’s ears pricked up.  

‘Well, some of the sentences are a bit lengthy.  And the dialogue could use some work.’  

My friend nodded, but her pain was palpable.  I’d just bad mouthed her baby.  Claire cackled triumphantly.  I felt guilt well up inside me like hot lava.  

I’d fallen victim to the bitch within.   

I want nothing more than to see my friends succeed.  But every time one of them threatens to surpass me on the success scale, Claire flies into a rage.  ‘They don’t deserve to do better than you!’  She screams, amongst other, equally disturbing judgements.  She really is a piece of work.  I wish I could exorcise her from my thinking for good, but until I work out how to do that, I’m just going to have to keep on reminding her who’s boss.