Perfectionist

I don’t know how to be flaky. I don’t know how to cancel appointments, or how to reschedule hangouts, or how to show up to work late, or how to be unproductive, or how to stop doing things.

This might sound like a backwards brag, a “my greatest weakness is that I care too much” kinda thing. It’s really not.

I’m hurting myself by always trying to do my best. I’m keeping myself from healing by trying so hard to do things right, and well, and wholeheartedly. I’m draining myself of energy and joy by trying to act at a capacity I haven’t been at for at least two years. I’m killing myself by being a perfectionist.

I’m back at work, I’m back in Oakland (kinda – I still miss a lot of Sunday’s at church, but I’m getting there), I’m back to “the way things were” before my mom got sick.

Except I’m not.

I forget that I’m grieving. I forget that I’m recuperating from 20 months or more of heightened fear and pain and stress. I forget that things aren’t the way they used to be - from the outside observer they look the same.

And I’m really, really good at pretending to be capable.

So I go to work, and I spend time with friends, and run errands, and paint my room, and on and on and on. It even seems like I’m doing less than I did before – in fact I am doing less.

But it’s not enough less.

Because after a few days of being (semi) capable, of being on (mostly) top of things, of being a perfectionist in (almost) all that I do, I get home and I feel exhausted. Spent. Empty. Like I could sleep for days and be perfectly happy.

But then morning comes around and I start it all over again.

I don’t know how to slow down. I don’t know how to moderate. And really, if I’m honest, I don’t know how to fail. Or really, I’m so petrified of failing that I pretend to be capable.

And I’m really, really tired.

note: I tried to publish this post without proofreading it, but the perfectionist in me couldn't do it. It probably makes more sense for having been proofread, but it also proves my point.