The Cost of Perfection

Blake was a perfectionist. A child learns what they live. This philosophical belief resonated with me when I read the poem by Dorothy Nolte, probably in my late teens. I’ve never really thought of myself as a perfectionist, but I’m coming to understand that, like Blake, I don’t like to do anything I’m not good at. I’m good at giving grace and space to others, but not to myself. While I consider that failure only applies in very limited situations, I also don’t attempt, or even consider, that which I perceive I will be unable to master – quickly. I set goals that I’m fairly certain I can accomplish.

Perfectionism is from the ego. It’s the voice that says not to show up because someone, outside of self, will judge. It’s the inner voice of self criticism that says, ‘I suck at this,’ ‘I’m not good enough to show up here,’ It’s about controlling the outside perception of self, from the inside.

In these situations, I find comfort in the shadows. If I don’t show up, my inability won’t be seen. There will be no judgment, at least from others. At the same time, I deny myself opportunities for learning, for overcoming, for being vulnerable, for relying on the expertise of others, for welcoming others who may be feeling ‘not good enough.’

I think about this in relation to addiction. The relapses. The need for and reliance on medication assisted treatment. What others tell them about this. The avoidance of family gatherings. The rejection of love. The desire to stay in the shadows. The danger of the shadows. Because shame.

Perfectionism. Control. Shame.

My boy continues to teach me. When Blake first left his physical body, I didn’t want to learn anything from the experience of losing him. I wanted to stay the same. I wanted to be miserable and wanted to rise at the same time. I’m learning so much. I don’t know how, but it’s like he cracked me wide open, the first time when he was born, and the ‘infinity and beyond’ time, when he left me here, to reach me and teach me from the Otherside.

I remember the first, and actually only, time I was accused of thinking I am perfect. I was on the phone with my dad, probably 20 years ago. “You think you’re so perfect, don’t you Tonya!?!” I literally crumbled to the floor in my kitchen. Thinking you’re perfect and being a perfectionist are polar opposites. I responded that he had no idea who I was. He still doesn’t and likely never will.

I have been driven to please – others. I have tried to control situations for the sake of maintaining peace – but not my own. This is often the outcome of childhood trauma. I have been the chameleon. The layers of damaged skin are peeling away, and I’m letting it. I’m showing up, more and more, as I am. It’s not easy. It’s scary and paralyzing and anxiety provoking, and freeing. There’s loss and acceptance and celebration in all of it. Sometimes I resist that which I know will help me be my best self, like proper nutrition. Sometimes I want to escape into the numbness of an extra glass of wine.

But I’m showing up. I’m doing things that I’m not great at, besides bowling. I’m terrible at bowling, but I can laugh at myself, and bowl anyway. Today I drew myself in the arms of my guardian angel, because it was an assignment in a workshop that I’m taking. And I posted it in the “21-Day Angel Adventure” private FB group, not because I think it is so good, but because I did it. I’ve always avoided drawing, because I decided I wasn’t good at it. Blake was an amazing artist. He was really amazing at anything he tried to do.

He stopped drawing. It broke my heart. I begged him to draw things for me, and I couldn’t understand when he turned away. But it was shame. He stopped doing all of the things he was good at. Maybe he was resisting too – resisting doing the things that brought him pride and confidence in himself and resisting doing things that brought praise from the outside. We noticed that after he maintained recovery for some time that we would recognize his effort, and without fail, he would relapse. We stopped expressing our pride. Recognizing wasn’t working – maybe silent cheering would. There was no way to control this.

I have a long history with addiction. Addiction and I go back to before I was born. Maybe generations. It still exists today, and I am trying to make sense of that which makes no sense. A disease that seems rooted in underlying trauma. I wonder about perfectionism, about the cost of not measuring up, of not feeling worthy, of hiding who you are for acceptance, when that acceptance will never last. Because the facade cannot last.

I’ve been sitting with this for a few weeks. I’ve come here to write a number of times. I’ve started and walked away. Tonight, I’ve written some words on the screen, thoughts. I’m sharing the picture I drew. It’s all a reflection of me, of not trying to reach perfection, because I’m not willing to pay the high cost of something that is absolutely unattainable, something that will only make me sick. Maybe you’re ready to stop paying the price as well.