Self-deprecating is used for humor and tension release. It’s something said with a friend, a stranger, or within a group. Deprecating self-talk is internal. It’s always thinking you’re not good enough. It’s finding ways to confirm it. It is mental bullying.
If you must really know why, it’s clicks. This was the pragmatic reality I faced back when I was with EARMILK. Music bloggers have to show you popular artists with massive budgets, because those albums drive clicks, and those clicks mean ad dollars. If fans don’t see Drake and Frank Ocean on the list, they’ll go other places where they can rub their fuck knuckle until they climax and get the coronation they’re expecting for Kanye West. You know why? Because Kanye West put together a garbage album, and if I’m not going to give Radiohead a pass for King of Limbs, I’m surely not going to give Kanye West a pass for pressing his mental illness onto a 180-gram vinyl and expecting me to find The Life of Pablo appealing.
When you undergo any kind of trauma, it causes a disturbance in emotions that once came so naturally at a time. My body stopped breathing the same way it used to — a big knot of tension evolved in my chest and remained there like a cocoon. My thoughts became corrupted — I couldn’t think in my naturally poetic way. Suddenly my world became rigidly controlled by numbers and mechanical, compulsive thinking. I couldn’t deal with everyday life. I was too busy hiding my soul in a dark corner so to shield it from the hurt I felt. Without your soul, you are only half a person, a machine who is constantly running from reality. I put up a daze like four safe walls that protected me from being consciously present in the abuse, and when the abuse ended, my daze remained. I lived in a world separate from everyone else.