I’ve been watching The Four Seasons (series) on Netflix, season 2. Last evening, in one episode, one of the characters said, commiserating with another character who feels like she’s getting everything wrong, “Every decision feels like I’m trying to stick the landing on my entire fucking life.” They obviously recognize it was not a healthy way to live. He was articulating that sense that good enough wasn’t good enough if it was his effort. No matter how difficult the thing or how well he accomplished whatever, if he didn’t nail it all the way (sticking the landing), the whole thing was shit. His whole life was shit.
I felt like someone had put my wet finger in an electrical socket.
It resonated with me in a very big way. It’s not perfectionism. Perfectionism, at least in my way of thinking, goes beyond the self. That is, one is perfect and one demands perfection in others and everything. For example, a perfectionist would not buy something that had even a tiny flaw or they would hold others to be perfect, or else. This is different. It’s a sort of insecurity. It’s an external applied to our internal self: one will be rejected if one is not perfect to/for others. I don’t think everyone feels this, but for those of us who do…ooof, boy howdy.
I (and that character) are not perfectionists and do not demand others be anything other than the flawed humans they are. If anything, I accept far more imperfection in others than the average person. I suspect that is probably precisely because of that sense of unfairness towards myself, the experience of being judged and rejected and the fear of it happening again. Whatever, I don’t judge people that way–I see “flaws” as charming imperfections that make a person the individual they are. But when it comes to me and my sense of security in this world… super judgy. Impossible standards.
I know where I got my “crazy” (thanks, Mom1). I’ve been aware of it for a long time. And, with a lot of work, I had mine pretty well under control–that is, I was aware of it and counter-programmed (for lack of a better term) so that it didn’t show up in my life much at all. I could let myself be imperfect and not be terrified. I could even laugh at my mistakes. I was okay, just as I was. People would like me as imperfect, just human. It was a much better way to live, and I lived it.
Until after the break-up. Something changed then.
Hearing that character say that line somehow made the pieces fall into place and I could see that I was sometimes doing that thing where I got bound up and afraid to do anything lest I screw it up. Including things that no one could possibly control. For example, at times I was terrified my car would break down or something house-related would fail. Well, of course those things aren’t just possible–they are likely! Everyone has these sorts of things happen. But it felt like I would be judged, and harshly, if they did. In other words, I had to stick the landing on just about everything in my life. The crazy was trying to return.
Why? Why was I holding my breath again? I know when we were still together I felt constrained, but that was about not upsetting my partner while he was dealing with his own stuff. Once I was freed from that, I felt lighter, briefly, but then this started. What the hell?
As I thought about it I realized that the break-up felt, to me, very similar to what I experienced with Mom. I had been taking long-term care of my partner, who was suffering some serious issues and, when I was exhausted and not perfect when I asked to be heard about something, he accused me of all sorts of untrue and horrible things and ended it2. After ending it, he has been virtually silent, only communicating when necessary and then as little as possible. Neighbors ask me where he’s ended up or how he’s doing and are shocked when I say, “I have no idea–he doesn’t talk to me.”
So very similar.
The harsh words plus the silent treatment were touching back to my core wound.
And… boom. Bob’s your uncle.
Once I got that into my head, I could feel the crazy slinking back into its hidey-hole and I could be like the Buddha and simply say, “I see you Mara,” and get on with things. Turns out, not only do I not need to stick the landing, when I do land on my ass, I can laugh at myself and, if needed, ask a friend to help me up3.
______________________
- Very long story short: as she was dying of lung cancer, I was her primary (virtually sole) caregiver; near the end, I made one personal mistake (got drunk at a party while my brother watched her) and for that she called me every disgusting name imaginable and then died a week later, not talking to me except if absolutely necessary for her care.
I was 18. ↩︎ - I would guess he would not see any of this the same way, of course. I can only and am only talking about my experience and feelings. ↩︎
- Thanks to all the work I’ve done and the amazing help of some fabulous therapists, I could see this much more easily, now. We all ebb and flow; part of what one learns in therapy is how to identify and deal with the things that arise, like this. ↩︎