A Perfectionist in Recovery
I’m a perfectionist in recovery.
It’s funny, and it’s not.
The suffering that comes with perfectionism is that nothing ever quite satisfies. Nothing is ever good enough because we believe we are never good enough. It’s a cruel turn that the more we run towards sufficiency the farther it seems to move away.
The ongoing joke in my life is that on those rare occasions when I catch myself going into harder-better-faster-stronger mode (also known as Daft Punk syndrome) and am able to take a step back and chill, it’s easy to see how intrinsically good I already am. No perfecting or polishing required. It makes me chuckle every single time (for the ten thousandth time). Life has a messed-up sense of humor.
Truth is, even after spending so much of my adult life in pursuit of spiritual, social, digestive, you name it perfection- here I am a moody, often confused, occasional asshole who wears different dress sizes in summer and winter. This doesn’t mean I’ve failed- it just means I’m me. All that so-called imperfection and I’m still a kick-ass human.
I bet a fiver to everyone who reads this far down that the exact same is true about you.