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The Irony of Perfectionism




All or nothing.

Black or white.

If it can not be done 100% perfectly than it will not be done.  Period.

I crave organization.  I need things to be tidy, in place, neat… clean.  But I am overwhelmed.  I am tired.  I am in over my head.

Sitting on the floor while my back is being warmed by the fire, I feel safe.  The heat from the flames envelopes me and gives me a sense of calm and peace as I write and the words effortlessly flow from my mind to the page.  At this moment, this sweet divine moment everything seems right… seems perfect.  But my eyes lift from the page and something small and white distracts me.  As my eyes focus more closely on the object I notice another and then another… tiny white delicate pieces of dog hair scattered randomly and haphazardly on the top of my dark pants like miniature needles threatening, jetting straight out into the air.  Soldiers standing at attention.  Flags of imperfection. 

I am a failure.

Small, tiny voice, somewhere inside of me.  I have yet to find the exact spot that this nameless, faceless, person in the first resides within me, but it is there.  It has a flat, toneless voice, void of expression, almost a whisper… but make no mistake, it is there.

Moving from the distraction of dog hair, my eyes scan the thick, plush, gray shag rug as they stop at the piles of books scattered in a semi-circle around me.  Yet another rim of unconsciensously built protection.  Fire to warm me from behind and books built into a stone-wall fortress, a barrier between me and the rest of my house… the rest of my life.

Various titles that promise to get my house organized and clean but also manage to appeal to my deeper sensabilities like “Cleaning and the Meaning of Life” irony… once again, that I have brought more stuff into my house, added more clutter to discover the elusive clean.  Clean=perfect, perfect=love.  How could anyone not love something, more importantly someone that is perfect.

Writing books, Bible studies, homework pages from the kids, two different calendars, a gym schedule, a book promising my kids will learn how to read better, faster in 100 easy lessons, smiley face and butterfly stickers for encouragement… all scattered about me.  Waiting for me, calling to me… to make me perfect.

Really?  You’re crazy and to top that off you are lazy, a bad mom and you are fat.

The voice.  Stronger this time.  Firmer.  Demanding attention.

Big sigh… you are probably right.  Resolved, however, to quiet the voice, as I have yet to find the path to complete silence, I move towards action.  I create neat little piles.  Eight piles, by subject, four on each side.  Nice balance.  Even.  Even is a form of perfect.  But still… not perfect.  All or nothing…

I am overwhelmed, in over my head and I am tired, so very tired. 
So for today…
I choose nothing.
If it can not be done 100% perfectly than it will not be done. Period.

... More to come! Excerpts taken from book I am writing:

After They Leave, Who Will Love Me?
A Memoir of struggle to find love after adoption, divorce and death




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