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.
