surviving criticism

I’m suffering an attack of Freud’s Id this morning. I woke up extremely grumpy, lists of to do’s rampaging through my mind, and feeling extremely guilty about snacking on cookies yesterday, not raking the yard, not doing the dishes, not cleaning up the clutter, not working hard enough etc. etc. etc. “And what is all this about?” I ask myself gently. “Mind your own business!” I snarl back.


Okay, I have my cup of tea, and I’m sitting down quietly. I’m trying to think what has happened recently to precipitate this attack of never-ending “to do’s”. Ahhh, maybe it’s because yesterday I received a “commercial” warning from Flickr. I had been using an Flickr account at work to back up all the photos of products, prizes and special events I had been taking. My work computer is old and I’m afraid it might develop some crippling disease (yes, it’s on the unsupported Windows XP).


I thought I was being clever saving the photos on the “cloud” where some of our suppliers could see how we were using their prizes in our contests. Saves me from having to email them. Flickr accused me of selling from their site. I can see how they might have thought I was trying to attract business, now, with some calm reflection, but at the time, it felt like some stranger was peeking into my hard drive and criticizing me. And oh, I have such a hard time dealing with criticism.


I try, I really try to be open to guidance and direction and helpful hints. And if criticism is given with compassion, ie, not “You’re WRONG!”, but “Have you thought of trying this?”, I have a chance at least of handling it better. Being criticized is like out of a clear blue sky a Monty Pythonesque foot slams down on me. I lose confidence in myself and everything seems wrong, hopeless and grey.


I saved my pix elsewhere and deleted the Flickr account, and no one’s yet taken me off to Internet Jail for Bad Behaviour. After my cup of tea, maybe I’ll do music and hope my normally bright, sunny (but cold, 0 degrees C this morning) world will return.


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