The Poison of Perfectionism

Earlier today, I had the painful pleasure of absorbing the third chapter of Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird.  It's entitled "Perfectionism," an incredibly sensitive subject for me.  I'm beginning to believe that it's almost too much for me.  This woman has been peeling scabs, layer by painful layer, away from the same wound that I've chained myself at death's "welcome" mat to forget.  My emotions were so strong that I literally considered writing her a letter that shared with Ms. Lamott how much I hated her.  But I don't.  Additionally, the things she says are absolutely true.  After some reflection, I realize that I somehow managed to attach my own value to how close I've been able to achieve perfection.  This has been both crippling and self-defeating.

My inner being is riddled with self-loathing and expectations for absolute failure.  Throughout the years, the pain from these holes has become a comfort in its familiarity.  Honestly, I mean, the pain feels like home, the place I've always been and where I most belong.  It feels tried and true.  It's who I am.  So wrenching myself from its loopy embrace seems a more tedious task than I'm willing to engage in.  I mean, this pain isn't a simple snakelike pain, one long slender terror to unravel.  Rather, it's much more similar to being entangled within the venomous, fanged-sucker laced tentacles of Cthullu.  Its fanged suckers are locked, their serrated tips so deep within me that to rip them away is to rip off chunks of myself. 

Practically anyone reading this understands, at least to some degree, the incredibly difficult and potentially life-threatening task that lies before me.  But I am clenching my teeth in desperate faith that the end result is going to be worth every whimper, every stumble, and every tear I must endure to reach it.