When I was a girl, I never thought about getting older, finding a husband, or having kids. I didn’t dream of a fancy wedding or a big house. I was too busy trying to survive a chaotic and sometimes scary childhood. I remember going to bed wondering if my older sister would ever come home or if my abusive stepfather would visit in the night.
These are things a child should not
have to think about.
Worry and anxiety took root at the
foundation of my being, finding fertile soil amongst the poverty, deprivation,
and abuse. By the time I was a teenager, the incessant fear had led to a quest
for perfection—hoping straight A’s, compliant behavior, and model-like
proportions would gain me the love, attention, and acceptance I yearned for.
It has taken me until my 50’s to realize perfectionism is like a field of landmines. Every time I think I’ve identified and carefully excised the obstruction, I discover another buried in my path.
Silencing, or at least reigning in, the self-critical voices in my
head followed close on the heels of tackling low self-esteem. Fear of failure
necessitated the need to set realistic standards and goals, which consequently
helped curb my procrastination, each a step in trampling a trail to
self-awareness.
The process of writing Lost Again
has been therapeutic in ways I had not imagined. Today, I am struggling to curb
my need to make every word selection perfect and in the process found yet another landmine
buried in the road. So here I am, telling myself to aim for excellence, not
perfection.
I am still a
master at finding flaws within myself, but I am learning to see them for what
they are: human.
