Self Love is for Quitters

I had several low points in lockdown: cancelled gigs, missing Christmas at home, hearing someone on Radio 4 make an Orange is The New Black Trump joke in 2021 the year of Our Lord. But the real Mariana Trench was the chat with my boyfriend about what life after Covid could look like.

“You know what?” he said, stroking my hand, as if he was about to break incredible news, like I really was related to the Obamas, or Girls Aloud were getting back together. “In a few years I could genuinely see you happily leading your comedy writing courses and maybe just running a London walking history tour part time...”

I paused waiting for him to carry on.

“...as well as being an in-demand comedian and writing for every topical show on TV, possibly Stephen Colbert, whom you may leave me for, which I’ll be sad about but ultimately accept, once you invite me onto your boat.”

Or...

“Just joking. I know what I’ve just described sounds like a living death because you are a vibrant comedy voice facing the peak of her creative powers.”

But neither of these things happened. He blinked back at me beaming, like he’d given me a birthday present, not realising it was a beautifully wrapped box full of shit.

“So let me get this right.” I said slowly, like I was a lawyer clarifying a statement from a witness who I was finally realising was mentally deranged. “You think I’d be fine, ME, not working, just relaxing and kicking my heels back until what? I DIED?”

And then he said landed the real knockout punch.

“I just think it’d make you happy.”

And here is where we get to the crux of the horror show that is my boyfriend's addled mind. He thinks that in the journey of life, our north star should be what makes us happiest. That loving ourselves is enough and that work is something we do to pay for our real lives. The beautiful fool.

We can all agree that self-love is for the birds and that being content with where you are in life is for quitters.

I don’t aim for happiness. I’m not a bloody sheep farmer. I harness, nurture and garden my insecurities, worries and fears, burying and pushing them down with the pressure of unrealistic goals and jealousy. Over time this creates a combustible fossil fuel, a hard dark polluting resource that I burn to achieve things. Sure, am I slowly choking to death on the fumes of my anxiety? Guilty as charged! But I get things done.

Without meaning to blow smoke up my arse (I need it to keep my engines churning), but you don’t get from the County Meath countryside to surviving in one of the most competitive industries in the world, by just enjoying the climb. Sorry Miley.

Annoyingly I have to be vague about where I’m from because two of the greatest Irish comedians of all time RUDELY came from my town. It’s hard to say with a straight face; “who can believe someone from Navan made it in comedy?’ when both Dylan Moran and Tommy Tiernan seem to be doing OK. It’s a bit like saying, “I’m just a young painter from Florence, kids like me just don’t make it in Renaissance Art.” I don’t know why so many people from Navan turned into comedians, but my hunch is we’re just across the Irish Sea from Sellafield and we also have the biggest lead and zinc mine in Europe. The idea we’re all slowly being driven mad by heavy metal poisoning in our water supply seems fanciful until you visit Navan and then it makes total sense.

Rush hour in Navan.

This isn’t the first time my boyfriend and I have argued about something like this. During the first few months of our relationship, we had a stand up row because he said if we had children, he would tell them they were perfect just the way they were and I couldn’t believe anyone would be that irresponsible. If we deprive them of the need to earn our approval, what will they be chasing after? Do we really want to bring more emotionally balanced occupational therapists into the world? I couldn’t live with myself. I want any daughter of mine to sigh to her therapist “of course, Mama was in showbiz” while ruefully smoking a cigarette. You don’t get a Liza without a little bit of Judy, folks.

I spoke to my friend about my annoying dilettante boyfriend and she said maybe, what he was saying is, he’d still love you if you were just a part-time London tour guide, that you don’t need to work for his love, that he loves you exactly as you are.

And honestly I never felt so betrayed. Does he have no ambition for me? If he really cared he’d at least introduce some clauses to spur me on; he’ll love me when I go to the gym three times a week, sort out the hairs on my chin once and for all, or shower on days when I don’t leave the house.

That’s what relationships are for. You find someone whose life you aspire to, do anything to win them over and then get to live in their magical kingdom, a glittery improved version of yourself. And then when they break up with you, you turn back into the pumpkin. But if someone loves you when you’re still in your rags, covered in soot and stinking, when will you ever go to the ball? It's just you being you forever and I’m sorry I will not go gently into that dark night.

Then my friend said, but what about comedy? Isn't that something you love for the experience and not to win people over? Couldn’t you use comedy to get love from yourself?

Have you ever heard someone say something so terrifyingly stupid that it makes you rethink everything they’ve ever said to you. I looked at her and thought, good god, you told me I could carry off a fringe?

“So,” I said slowly, genuinely worried that she might have suffered a brain injury and I’d regret losing my temper with her later. “Making people laugh is like winning love coupons that I use to buy affection from strangers. Why wouldn’t I cash them in? What use are they expiring smugly in my wallet? And secondly, why would I want to win love from myself? I KNOW me. I have very low standards and I’m an absolute moron. I watch YouTube makeovers for two hours straight and I believe I invented pesto pasta, I’m not the winner you seem to think I am.” 

And then she said “I honestly think the only chance you have of any sort of peace of mind is if you could write something funny just for yourself, maybe about this very topic, taking joy in having made it for you and you alone. Force yourself to not show it to or share it with anyone else as a way of getting attention or praise from strangers. Do you think you can do that?”

Rolling my eyes I said “Of course I can do that. How hard can that be?”