imperfect

Perfectionism … fair warning, friends, I’m going to rip this thing wide open. I’m guessing you might be cringing right now, because you’re right in there with me. God, how many women have become entangled by the enemy’s lies on this subject? And oh, how You want us to be free!

So let me pick up where I left off: perfectionism is hell.

I don’t use either word lightly. Perfectionism has been camouflaged as pretty, dismissed with nervous laughter, excused as a personality trait, even lauded as a strength. It is none of the above. It is a trap, a torment, and the worst kind of betrayal, for it allures with promises of liberation while plotting destruction.

I didn’t want to write about this. Increasingly, that seems to be my modus operandi. I really don’t have much to say on the topic, or know what to say, or how to present it with a hopeful spin, so I’m just going to leave it alone. 

Besides, God, it’s messy. I haven’t had a chance to work through this one and come out on the other side. I don’t know how to fix it, or fully what the problem is. I don’t have any answers, or even all the right questions. Bringing this up now would just leave me dangling, exposed, and I’d simply rather not …

Then, oh! How quickly the wind shifts: You’re just doing this to get attention, to cause a scene. You secretly crave the validation that comes with being vulnerable, and if you show a little weakness, you know people will be drawn to that. This is all about you right now, and if you want to be truly humble, you’ll leave it alone …

{Side note: I was trying to come up with a different style font to put that last part in, but it’s really the same voice mixture as the “prayer” further up, isn’t it? Moving on, I’ve omitted a few paragraphs of me wrestling this out with God and getting back on track. Short version: Yes, it is His message. No, I don’t have to figure it out before I share it.}

a question of right

So, perfectionism … how arrogant, right? To believe that I control my own destiny, that I am ultimately responsible for everything that happens to me, as well as everything I do. And that, with the best of intentions, I can actually control any of this … or even that I have the best of intentions! It’s ludicrous.

Yet on a practical level, this is exactly how I operate. I will not reveal the unwritten list of things I’ve left undone, the rooms in my apartment I have not cleaned, the days I don’t bother to get dressed. Even now, when people are airing these revelations as a twisted badge of honor, one-upping each other on how much of a hot mess they can be, I won’t do it. When life grows a few shades darker, my Instagram feed grinds to a halt. I’m not going to curate a saccharine scene while shoving my chaos off-stage; I just won’t publish any image of my reality. My walls are neither as high nor as thick as they used to be, but I still manage to keep most of the world at arm’s length—more space to hide the struggle.

It was remembering that question that tipped all of this off, I guess: Do you think that if you were doing all this *right,* you wouldn’t need to struggle? It was a friend, this time, who raised the issue.

Of course not! That’s absurd. I mean, who would actually believe …

Yes.

Actually, yes … I do.

doing life wrong

Remember that almost, sort-of relationship that I was convinced would lead to happy-ever-after but instead, it blew up in my face? I thought that if I did the right things, said the right things, prayed the right prayers, it would turn out the way I wanted. Or at least, I would have been able to anticipate disaster well enough to ward off the blindside blow. Never mind that I had never navigated anything remotely like that season before; I should have known better.

And I definitely shouldn’t have ended up in the emergency room back in February. After all, I’d been sick off and on for a few days. If I’d been taking better care of myself, surely I could have prevented racking up unnecessary hospital bills and alarming multiple loved ones before finding someone able to drive me through a snowstorm in the middle of the night. You know, like seeing the doctor in the daytime.

And let’s not forget this crazy COVID thing! Forget about the fact that literally the whole world is in the dark over how to deal with it. I should be handling it better. I should know which news reports to believe and which to dismiss, know how to keep myself and others safe and healthy, and whether that’s even the most important thing. Most significantly, I should never feel afraid or alone or uncertain, because I believe in Jesus. If I do feel any of those things, (!!!) woe to me if I admit them, because it will reveal a lack of faith and expose to everyone that I am doing it wrong.

Doing what wrong? Well, quarantine, relationships, and life in general. 

I MUST BE DOING SOMETHING WRONG!

After all, why am I not married, or at least, contentedly unmarried? Why do I not have a thriving ministry and several published books by now? Why do I have such a hard time finding fulfillment in my work and purpose in my life if I am actually where God placed me? Why am I excessively self-absorbed and introspective? Why do I struggle with fear and stress and anxiety when I’m supposed to know His peace? Why do I get so discouraged and give in to dark thoughts and fail to hold tightly to the hope I profess?

That’s it, right there: my overarching belief for everything unsettling in life. It must be my fault. I am obviously the one responsible, and I have clearly failed. Therefore: turmoil, stress, pain, discomfort. You name it, I deserve it.

And the converse: if I were to just do everything right, all would be well. I MUST DO EVERYTHING RIGHT! I mean, that’s a given. Oh, I will of course cloak it in terms of faith—prayers for discernment, wisdom, seeking wise counsel, etc.—but ultimately, I am responsible, and the world will come crashing down if I fail. I must NOT fail … or, if I do, hide it, disguise it, while simultaneously accepting all blame, quickly apologizing, and, naturally, fix, fix, fix to clean up the mess before anyone can be sure it was really there.

i can’t fix this

Confrontation can come in the most gentle, loving of ways and still leave me gasping for breath. This particular time, it came during one of the intense conversations surrounding my now 40-year-old unmarried state. Yes, it was just as devastating as it sounds.

Could it be, at least partly, God’s mercy that you remain single, because the natural, unredeemed pressure a wife feels to please her husband might be so heavy it would crush you?

God’s kindness to give me what I do not want, to spare me from what I cannot see?

Ouch!

And yes.

It could. I’m not saying it absolutely is—neither, to be fair, was my friend—but I am allowing it to be possible. After all, how many things that we want, and do not have, are withheld because of God’s grace to us?

The revelation came with a tender warning, obviously, that I must not go out and try to “fix” my perfectionism in exchange for an engagement ring. 

Oh, no; not me! Sigh.

Still, it has intruded upon my consciousness fairly often in the months since, to wonder what kind of burden my perfectionism would place on husband and children, what kind of impossible standards it would invisibly, inevitably, hold them to. And if I struggle to walk this road beneath its weight now, who knows what strain the added complexity of intimate, covenant relationships could place on my sanity?

Who knows? Actually, there is One who knows very well. Yet rebelliously I want to say: Look how many people are living the life I want! It’s not like they had to be perfect before earning the right to …

Wait—perfect? Before earning …

Oh.

Yup, that is absolutely how I look at life, isn’t it? Perfection = blessing, right = righteousness, failure = humiliation, condemnation, and ultimately, disqualification. I say I believe a lot of things: grace, faith, forgiveness. Yet this is how I live.

Hold on. Before I slide fully back into the muck from which I’ve been rescued, let me also say this:

Father, forgive me.

One of my pastors is always saying something like, “Recognition is nine-tenths of the battle.” I hadn’t truly realized what I was up against. Now that I am beginning to, I will cling to this truth …

Perfectionism is not my identity. It is my jailer and my chain, and I have woefully accepted both. However, since Jesus died and rose again to set loose the captives, He is both able and willing to come through for me.

Which, of course, is extremely Good News, because … This perfectionism thing?

God, I can’t fix this.