I spent a substantial amount of time as a child thinking I had to be perfect. In my early 20’s, I started telling myself that perfection is boring but up until recently, it was just something I said. Now that I have a child who takes exception with making mistakes, I understand just how damaging the quest for perfection can be.
But perfectionism isn’t my worst trait. Never being satisfied is.
I have been known to make myself perfectly miserable, then react with self-righteous indignation when called on my bullshit. I’m the one who does this to myself, no one else.
Mind you, I’m not talking about sex here. I’m talking about the whole of my life. I’m not happy to just accept what comes. Worse, I never feel as though I’m trying hard enough, working hard enough.
I’m constantly starting self-improvement projects then letting them lapse. Perhaps this is because I’m starting to tire of the constant drain on my emotions which I do my utmost to keep under lock and key (the negative ones, that is). I’m starting to see how my treatment of myself being mirrored in my little man, which completely shatters my heart. He’s so beautiful, smart, hilarious, empathetic, loving…how can he NOT be happy? I’m forever telling him that negative self-talk is a horrible thing to do to himself, and yet, I’m constantly showing him how to beat his head in.
I know, on days that I’m willing to accept it, that I am all the things I described my son as being. Yes, PCOS has damaged my skin and body, but it’s correctable. The beauty is still there though. I just spend most of my time describing myself as fugly. Smart is something I’ve always known and accepted, but unfortunately it contributes to my proclivity towards dissatisfaction (I’m smarter than this!). Hilarious, oh, I definitely have my days. I had my mom and grandmother in stitches all weekend and I’m ecstatic that A has inherited my sense of humor. J, on the other hand, doesn’t get it most of the time, which makes me feel as though my funny bone has left the building.
The older I get, the more desperately I long to just accept; myself, that the choices I’ve made or not made have put me where I am. But more than that, I wish I could undo all the training I’ve given my family on how to handle me. My deep and dramatic dissatisfaction with my life has trained them to THINK I’m broken, so they treat me as such.
Acceptance has to start somewhere. Am I ready to take on that responsibility?
*Thank you Daily Prompt for laying bare my ugliest flaw. Hopefully people will still love me…