How our conscience doth make fools of us all

Our  consciences are acknowledged legacies of a religious past even if the consciences in question are secular heirs, they are all to a 'man' cultural inheritances. 

So? The conscience is our inner judge which treat us as an object in many instances as it bugles out its cultural message, loud hailering us from the other side of the street and a lot of the time radically misrecognising its audience, us, you and me. 

So how have we become enslaved to this 'part' of ourselves; this inner judge, treating us as if we cannot answer back as a result it is noticeable how merciless and unsympathetic we can be to ourselves in our self criticism that in more cases than not frequently become self lacerations.

We are never as good as we should be; and neither, it seems, are other people. A life without a so-called critical faculty would seem an idiocy: what are we, after all, but our powers of discrimination, our taste, the violence of our preferences? Self-criticism, and the self as critical, are essential to our sense, our picture, of our so-called selves. Nothing makes us more critical – more suspicious or appalled or even mildly amused – than the suggestion that we should drop all this relentless criticism, that we should be less impressed by it and start really loving ourselves. But the self-critical part of ourselves, the part that Freud calls the super-ego, has some striking deficiencies: it is remarkably narrow-minded; it has an unusually impoverished vocabulary; and it is, like all propagandists, relentlessly repetitive. It is cruelly intimidating – Lacan writes of ‘the obscene super-ego’ – and it never brings us any news about ourselves. There are only ever two or three things we endlessly accuse ourselves of, and they are all too familiar; a stuck record, as we say, but in both senses – the super-ego is reiterative. It is the stuck record of the past (‘something there badly not wrong’, Beckett’s line from Worstward Ho, is exactly what it must not say) and it insists on diminishing us. It is, in short, unimaginative; both about morality, and about ourselves. Were we to meet this figure socially, this accusatory character, this internal critic, this unrelenting fault-finder, we would think there was something wrong with him. He would just be boring and cruel. We might think that something terrible had happened to him, that he was living in the aftermath, in the fallout, of some catastrophe. And we would be right.

Source: http://www.lrb.co.uk/v37/n05/adam-phillips/against-self-criticism