I Didn't Major in Psychology...

I'm sitting on my couch, looking out at a beautiful, mostly sunny, humid day in the Amazon.  I mean, Indianapolis.  After this year's polar vortex, I will not complain about the humidity.  I will not complain about how my naturally curly hair just graduated to "fro" status.  Remember that episode of Friends where Monica had to get the braids to control her crazy 'fro hair in the Caribbean?  Yep, that's me.  

Eh, oh well.  

Jack and I just returned from a STUNNING 10-day vacation that started on July 2.  We met our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Vera, for our annual beach vacation up on Lake Michigan.  We spent a couple days over the 4th in Chicago, partying with the Vera family, then we moved on up to the beach.  We visited old friends (Alex, as referenced in previous posts) and her dogs, complete with Coronas in the sun while we threw the tennis balls 294 times for the doggies.  We boogieboarded.  I paddleboarded several times and feel as though I got the knack of it.  We sunned on the beach for hours, lingering in the 72-and-sunny, robin-egg-blue skies, with gentle lake breezes that stirred up just enough wave action to make it feel like the ocean.  

It was perfect.  Our friends have become family and we could share long stretches of silence, with everyone equally absorbed in their beach reads.  The Chardonnay was cold, the sandwiches fresh, and each evening, Jack whipped up a gourmet feast.  We shared a few beach bonfires and lit several of those really cool paper lantern things into the night sky.  

And yet, I could not relax.  200 miles away from my job, iPhone on airplane mode (I needed it for pictures and music), and splayed out on a warm beach with my family, I could not relax.  In fact, I was wound tighter than a garage door spring - you know the scary ones about which urban legends are spun where they suddenly unwind and kill people.  Separately, the other three would pull me aside and express their concern for my wellbeing, saying I'm "too young to be this uptight."

Yeah....I know.  I thought I was working on it. 

My favorite part of vacation is the chance to sit and just "be," to let the proverbial dust settle in my mind, heart, and soul.  It's when I let my soul catch up to my life (if that makes any sense).  But when I started to allow the muck to settle, I didn't like what I saw.  In fact, I had a terrible night the last two nights as I struggled through a poignant, painful, perhaps deadly realization.  

I'm a raging perfectionist.  Probably an obsessive perfectionist.  I know, I know, anyone reading this is laughing to themselves, shaking their head like, "Duh!!"  But it dawned on me, clear and unquestionable - that I HAVE to change something.  The daily chest pain and moments at work where I catch myself unconsciously holding my breath HAVE to stop.  I'm going to either die or burn out and do the Dairy Queen gig I keep somewhat joking about.  

The perfectionist thing explained everything to me.  I'm insecure as hell, afraid that someone's going to watch me make one mistake and then deem me unworthy.  Unworthy of my job, my marriage, my friends, everything.  Is it irrational?  Of course.  But in my head, there are only two options: 100% success or 100% failure.  All I wear is black and white; in my first executive positions, I thought it made me look and seem sharp, crisp, unemotional.  And yet, it's a reflection of what's going on in my head.  I'm scared shitless that I'm going to fail.  For me, failure means a lack of responsiblity and that I'm unworthy of love.  Which, of course, is ridiculous, but this is the self-talk I am trying to overcome.    

I'm not one of those perfectionists who procrastinate because they want perfection.  Well, except for this painting I've been working on of Bono where I can't seem to finish it because I don't want to screw something up.   Professionally, I don't catch myself procrastinating.  I'm the opposite - I never freaking sit down until my to-do list is done and email box is empty.  Again, two unrealistic goals.  I'm truly seeking perfection, unwilling to admit that my goals are crazy (and unattainable) and that I will never be good enough.  

All of this came out Friday night, as I sat at 1:00 a.m. in our screened in porch, under glimmering Christmas lights we strung between the rafters.  Mrs. Vera must have heard me creep out there - she followed me and offered me an ice-water and a shoulder.  I talked for hours, feeling so grateful for the safety she offered me out there in the dark.  Unjudging, unconditional safety.  It was new for me.    

I'm not wired to trust people.  I've been hurt a lot.  My dad abandoned me as a kid and when I tried to reach out to him a few months ago (the Fourth commandment about honoring one's parents really haunts me).  My biological sperm donor did not even respond to the email.  I guess I'm off the hook.  But the feeling is magnified with my brother, who recently left our immediate family and despite our many attempts at reconciliation, doesn't want us either.  I've had friends abandon me throughout the years when our relationships seemed secure, safe, and trusting.  I know that none of this is my fault (it's going on in others' heads) nor did I "force" this to happen.  But my brain thinks "I made a mistake with someone and now I'm unlovable.  They don't love me enough to see me through whatever hypothetical crap arose."  

[PS, Kelly, if you happen to be reading this, I cannot find that statue you requested back.  I'm sorry.  If it appears among our stuff, I will make sure to get it to your sister.]  

There's just no reasoning with my brain.  Even in the last 48 hours, I've had to intentionally select my thoughts.  My brain and its wacky thoughts are not correct.  I have the power to change this. 

I worked so hard a few years ago, to always be the same person.  I didn't want a dichotomy where I was one person at work, one at home.  But what I ended up inadvertantly doing is creating one highly-stressed, rigid, intense woman.  Whom I don't really like now.  The executive self won out, not a mixture of both my professional presence and fun-loving gal who drinks beer and challenges the neighborhood kids to games of Knock Out and front yard soccer.  I'm uptight, always on guard, and, well, trying to be perfect.      

So here's my plan for change...each day, I am going to purposefully fail at something.  It will be inconsequential; I'm not going to email a big F-bomb to my CEO.  But I'm going to do something where I fail.  Maybe it's making a bad batch of broccoli.  Maybe it's spilling a drink on the floor.  Maybe it's not making my bed and not worrying about the crud on the kitchen floor.  The point is, I will keep aiming for excellence (not perfection) at work.  But at home and even at work, I have to supplant "perfection" with "good enough."  All of the effort of perfectionism is exhausting.  My heart and soul are just wiped out.  

Thanks to my wonderful husband and an excellent friend on a dark porch in Michigan in the middle of the night, I realized for the first time that I'm good enough.  Me, just being myself, is enough.  And that imperfect person is loved.  And even more - the mistakes give me experiences and color my life.  I will figure out how to love myself better and stop taking things so darn seriously.  I feel as though I've lost several years in this pursuit of perfection (especially at work), trying to make everyone think I'm professionally accomplished and worthy of my job.  They aren't the ones who thinking I haven't earned my job.  I am.  There, I said it in writing.  I'm the one I'm trying to impress and convince is worthy.  

I have a long way to go.  But I'm thinking about chronicling my funny failures in the coming weeks.  I'm not going to set an expectation that I blog daily (no more 100% failure/success thinking) but I'd like to document some of this here.  I know it's quite personal but anyone who knows about this blog is in my trusted circle anyway.  So just send me chocolates, Chardonnay, and jokes while I work through this.

My heart and soul are worth it.