Recovery: The Re Emergence and Death of my Perfectionism

This may seem like an obvious statement, but for this individual in recovery, it’s a revelation that has left me dumbfounded. Here goes: I, am not.... perfect. That’s right. I am not perfect.  I make mistakes. I have flaws and character defects. I slack off, I give up, I lose interest. I can be selfish and self seeking, dishonest, and fearful. I’ve got scars on my body and my heart, and I’ve given out my fair share of scars to others. I’m not your standard beach babe in a bikini, I get B’s on tests, I’m socially awkward and I mess up at work. I’ve been known to snap at my mother on the phone and shoot a dirty look to a stranger. Sometimes, I fall from crow pose in yoga and can’t hold hip openers. I’m just not perfect, in fact I’m far from it.

In my drinking and drug using days, this didn’t matter. I kept up the illusion of perfection to the best of my ability, and although those around me probably didn’t buy it, I did. I never admitted fault. I strived for perfection and if I didn’t get it, I got defensive, I made excuses and divided up the blame, leaving none for me. If the excuses didn’t work, I’d lie, sometimes not even realizing that what I was saying was false. I’d wallow in a pool of self pity, and when the defenses and excuses failed, I’d drink, I’d use. Nothing could bust my impenetrable ego. So when I finally put down the substances, I was alone without my biggest lifeline, my go-to disguise. I felt utterly defeated. My ego was a balloon abruptly popped by the needle of my sobriety. Suddenly, I was at fault, I had done wrong. This knowledge seemed unbearable, so at first, I ran from it swiftly. My perfectionism told me I couldn’t be a perfectionist, much like my alcoholism had told me I couldn’t be an alcoholic. Sure, I didn’t hold others to the standards I held myself to, but that was to be expected. I was supposed to do better, be better, illuminate with success, right? Everyone was watching and waiting for me to be someone, to do something!

So, a few weeks sober.... I took control, or so I thought, of everything I possibly could around me. I criticized my partner, I obsessed over grades. I abandoned hobbies I wasn’t the best at. I thought I should feel better NOW and I hustled to therapy, anticipating instant results. I even tried to be the best at recovery, bragging about how many 12 step meetings I had made it to that week.

Recently, however, something has shifted. Perhaps this shift emerged from my ongoing step work, or my ever-evolving yoga practice. Whatever the catalyst, I am grateful, because my perfectionism was absolutely exhausting. I figured out that within my expectations, was the decision that I should be great at things by default, at the start. I didn’t account for the necessity of practice or reality of living. Ok, so practice yields skills and success, yes...but then more realizations roll in. There simply isn’t enough time in the day for total life excellence! I can’t be the best at everything. I have to prioritize. I have to decide what values and paths deserve the majority of my attention. So, I made a list of what I’m not, and embraced it: I’m not a perfect student, I’m not the best test taker, I’m not a perfect daughter, and at times I’m a crummy partner. I can’t fix bikes or cars and I’m seemingly over the age of one hundred when I’m dealing with computers. I fail at realism and when I create art, sometimes it’s awful. No matter how hard I try, I can’t hold a handstand for more than 3 seconds.  I could be a better listener, and I could certainly be a lot less selfish.

Then I made a list of what I am, and embraced that too: I’m a hard worker and a loyal friend. I do my best to call my mother every Sunday, and I send check-in texts to other addicts.  When I paint, my emotions are translated into thick acrylic streaks that catch eyes and interest. I rock at arm balances and back bends on the mat, and I make killer yoga playlists. I’m passionate. I’m creative. I’m clever. I’m thoughtful. I'm working on being more compassionate and kind. I’m me, I’m not perfect, and that’s okay.

Life is short- I don’t have the time for perfection, and even if I did, I don’t need it. My faults make me more interesting, as does the mess of life. Letting go of perfection means embracing acceptance, healing, and relaxation. It means I can sit back and enjoy myself. It looks like  loving and being present in what I’m doing, not using my actions to impress others. It’s nourishing myself with activities that help me grow, not feeding myself with pure ego fuel. It’s not being the best automatically, it’s striving to be better.

The only perfect thing in my life today, is the sheer fact that I and my life, are utterly imperfect.  

How the hell did I get here?

Do you ever have those moments in life where you stop suddenly and say to yourself, how the hell did I get here? Tonight yielded one of those moments. Two particular events prompted this abrupt realization- both directly related to my personal journey in recovery. Tomorrow marks 9 months clean and sober from drugs and alcohol for me. Tonight, I taught a naked yoga class. So what do these events have to do with each other? 

I am in recovery from my own addictive behaviors and habits, alcoholism and bulimia. 

I don't know why I was bulimic. My mother was a feminist and I had a big sister who was a dear role model. I didn't witness either of these women in my life binge, purge, or practice other harmful eating behaviors. I read all the body positive books my mother gifted me. I was active and not over weight. Sure I was bullied in middle school, but no more so than anyone else. Yes, my parents were divorced, but I still had a loving family. I threw up everyday none the less. I would sit in my family's shower to cover the sound and puke until I was devoid of food and thought. I'd push all the chunks down the drain and clean the shower so no one would suspect a thing. I'd be the first to use the restroom in restaurants after dinner and make sure no one followed. Sometimes I wouldn't eat all day, but I'd binge and purge at night. I hated my body. I thought my stomach should be flatter. My thighs thinner. I figured no one could ever love me. I was miserable. Uncomfortable in this human suit. Confused, depressed, lonely. All I wanted was an escape from my suffocating insecurities. 

Then I discovered alcohol, and I had been saved. Saved from having to feel like I wasn't pretty, sexy or smart. Saved from my own obsessive thoughts, and saved from having to feel my emotions. I ran with it. I blacked out in high school and giddily kissed everyone I could find except my boyfriend. Then my behavior quickly turned from innocent and fun to dark and dangerous. My vomiting shifted from choice, to alcohol poisoning. I took a shot, I took off my clothes. I forgot I had to give consent and began to mark up my body and heart with deep, irreversible wounds. 

After high school, I found drugs. I let a lover test his experimental DMT on my developing brain. I snorted cocaine in bathrooms and spent college refunds on copious amounts of synthetic ecstasy. I lied, I cheated, stole... I disrespected my body and mind. I became a horrible role model for my younger sisters, abandoning all the older women in my life had taught me. I slept with men to steal their prescriptions. People used me and took advantage of me, and I them. I threw up in my sleep. I overdosed at concerts. I looked at death with an apathetic eye. I spat in the face of anyone who tried to save me. I got violent. I got sick. I got sexually assaulted. I failed classes. I dropped out of school. I moved across the country, again...and again. I ran from place to place, relationship to relationship, drug to drug.

And yet, no matter how hard I tried, I could never truly escape.

No matter what I took, no matter where I went, there I was. 

Crawling out of these fiercely ingrained habits was not easy. Yoga and therapy helped me to stop throwing up, and today, I can happily say I have not engaged in bulimic behavior in over 3 years.

Letting go of alcohol and drugs was an even harder struggle. I detoxed for days after putting down the drink. I shook, I felt dizzy, I even hallucinated a bit. A few weeks sober, my partner at the time decided he had to let me go. My heart was beyond broken, but I didn't drink. A few months sober, one of my oldest and dearest friends died in a tragic car accident, but I didn't drink. I struggled with new and old emotions. I felt like that little girl who started throwing up just to get outside of herself. But instead of binging and purging, instead of drinking or drugging, I sat with my truth. I sat in my pain. I felt anger. I tasted sadness. I let it run through me...and I was ok.

Today- I taught a naked yoga class. And I didn't care how I looked. I didn't think about my belly or my thighs. I didn't wish I was different or someone else. I felt confident and beautiful. I felt strong. I adjusted the music and gave verbal cues. I flowed through vinyasas with grace beside other people, in their naked human suits. I felt at home in my body. I felt at peace.

I came home, sober, and stayed sober. I didn't have to drink. I wasn't trying to escape myself and my thoughts weren't too much to handle. I made dinner, I played with my dog, I felt at peace.

I've gone from madness to miracles. Chaos to comfort. Spinning to stillness. I went from hating myself and destroying my body, to celebrating my sacred vessel. I've moved from destruction to creation.  From addiction, to yoga. I am forging a new way of living in this body, as myself. And I feel at peace.