I don’t want a cognitive therapist, I simply need to talk, to unravel the tangled mess of yarn that my life has become. Changing my behavior is not going to get me out of my current predicament. I need to somehow understand why I did all the insane things I did over the past three years.
I lost myself. Anyone who knows me well would probably say I dove off the deep end. I did things that I could never in my wildest imagination imagine doing. Just saying those words causes a deep feeling of melancholy to wash over me and I am not a melancholy person. Where to begin? I’m not really even sure I want to. Perhaps it would be better to just keep it all in the vault and keep moving forward. It is painful to look at my actions.
Why? Because I know in my heart they were motivated by a deep sense of insecurity. I am sad for this woman, this girl, this incomplete person. She is pathetic and I don’t want to be pathetic any more. I want and need to grow beyond this person. I have this sense that I am going to have to go back and pick up my broken pieces and own them before I will be able to reassemble them into a new perfectly imperfect person.
Perfectly imperfect. I have grown very fond of this term and it has been running through my mind over the past few months. It first entered it one day as my 18 year old daughter was telling me how much she enjoyed events and happenings where things somehow went awry, especially when the intention is for everything to be just so, to be perfect. I loved that she saw the beauty in imperfection, that she could appreciate this element of life.
This comment arrived at time when I had started taking a hard look at my own tendency to be quite hard on others – a fact that I had been oblivious to previously. It is funny how our children have a way of reflecting our behavior back to us in a very honest and profound way.
My nightly rantings about a coworker at the dinner table eventually caused my daughter to bring up the fact that this is something I had done before. In fact it was something I done during every job I had had since going back to work seven years ago. Hmmm. Could she be right. Initially I balked, No, not me. I’ve got legitimate things to complain about here. But as time progressed I could see that, yes there was indeed a pattern.
In fact in my heart of hearts I wanted the perfect life for many many years. Perfect husband, perfect children, perfect home…perfect me. And pretty much everyone and everything came up short, especially myself. My expectations were not met.
So I have veered far from the path of perfection, I have fallen from my perch from which I judged others so harshly. But I now have a new vantage point to view both myself and the world from, and things are looking perfectly imperfect.