Perfection

I've been listening to a lot of podcasts and Ted Talks recently.  Apparently, that's what you do when you hit mid life and start questioning your life's purpose.

My favorites so far are: Brene Brown, Jen Hatmaker, and of course Oprah Winfrey.  Some of it, even I think is a little far fetched or I know it already (eye roll...of course, I do...of course).  This is one of the reasons counselling for me, in the past, has been unhelpful.  I know it already.  I keep waiting for this epiphany when I go to counselling, like their questions will help me realize something about myself that I don't already know or that I haven't already thought of.  But I am soooooo introspective (read: worrier) I've already thought about that.  For about 15 hours.  Usually at about midnight, and I can only assume midnight is when I do my best thinking, seeing as that's when I'm wide awake. And it's quiet.  And everyone else is sleeping. 

But I keep hoping that if I keep listening to the strong, amazing, successful women something will stick.  Here's the thing, these women aren't talking about how to be amazing or successful, they're talking just about how to be.  Just how to be.

For years I've defined myself by my ability to be perfect and my ability to do things well. Really, really well.  Good grades, acing tests, meeting targets, exceeding targets - it's what I do.  Type A, perfectionism, they are my best and my worst qualities.  Imperfection is failure, and I cannot fail.  I love breaking the glass ceiling.  I love being the only girl at the boys table.  But also as a person who has diagnosed depression and anxiety, being able to control my environment has become a coping mechanism.  Or maybe something to hide behind.  I don't know if there's a difference.

Lately being perfect has taken it's toll on me.  It's exhausting.  It's making me physically sick (either that or I have a brain tumour - which is entirely possible...even if my doctor says it's not...)

Because -  brace yourselves - perfectionism - it's an impossible target.  I know this.  I know it on an intellectual level.  But on a personal, soul searching, heart wrenching level I find it so hard to accept.  If I'm not perfect or at least trying to attain some version of perfectionism, who am I?  What am I?

I'm at a crossroads.

Brene Brown asks what makes you brave?

For me, I've always followed the rules.  I'm really good at following rules.  They make me feel safe.  I mean, that's kind of what rules are there for - keeping everyone safe.  I'd make a great traffic cop.  I would break every record for traffic tickets - you could single-handedly replace every bridge in the lower mainland with the revenue I would create.  Because frankly, people get away with too much - rolling stops, driving slow in the fast lane, singles driving in the carpool lane, not wearing seat belts, and the list goes on and on.  I can feel my blood pressure going up just thinking about all the violations.   

I've tried to follow life rules as well as I can too.  Get a good, stable job.  One that offers a pension and benefits.  Some of that isn't just because I like rules.  Some of it is just practical because I have a child and I'm responsible for putting a roof over his head, feeding him, clothing him.  Following the rules is helpful.  He grows so fast these days that I literally would have to rob H&M in order to clothe him if I didn't follow the rules.

So if I were to be brave - I would break a few rules.  Life rules.  Rules I've made up for me and my life. 

Brene Brown talks about being vulnerable (which by the way, is very difficult to do and be when
you're perfect).  She says:

Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage. Truth and courage aren't always comfortable, but they're never weakness.*

*pause*

*breathe*

Another very wise woman - my momma - says that being imperfect gives you the opportunity to experience grace in a way you can't otherwise.  Grace fills in the spots where imperfections leave cracks. 

The more you strive for perfection, the more imperfect you become.

I don't know how this story ends yet.  It doesn't end in one blog post, though, I know that. 

My good friend Jen...Jen Hatmaker, she says -

Simply speaking truth out loud is healing in and of itself.  When people courageously voice a true, hard thing, they've already stolen some of it's dark power before we offer one word to fix it**

*brenebrown.com

**For the Love - Fighting for Grace in a World of Impossible Standards  Jen Hatmaker

Mid-Life

Oh I know it's been awhile.

I haven't had much to say.  About anything.

Well that's not true.  I have lots to say about everything.  They're just not very important thoughts. They're more like rants and vents and there are plenty of crazy rants on the internet.  You don't need to come here to read that.

There it is.  In a nutshell.  I haven't been feeling very...important...

...and I have been feeling very insignificant.

2017 has not been a very good year for me.

I mean, no one has died.  We all still have 10 fingers and 10 toes each.  We have both eye balls.

Here's the issue.  Actually, there are two issues.  I've known they were coming, yet they still seem to have snuck up on me me and I don't know where to go from here.  So here it is...

I turn 40 next month.  And I have a teenager.

F - O - R - T - Y

How did this even happen?  What have I done with the past forty years?  Where did they go?  I still feel like I'm 30.  Or 25 even.  Now I know what all those 60 year old men meant when they say on their dating profiles that they don't feel their age and identify with women 20-25 years younger than they are.  I feel like that.  I feel like it was just yesterday that I was graduating from high school with my whole life in front of me.  Now I wonder if my best years are behind me.  Did I squander it?  My life?  All those years?  Is it too late?  I should have accomplished something really, really huge by now.  I should have written a book or changed a life or created something really amazing.  I feel like that's what 20 year old me would have expected of me.  But now I don't even know what success looks like.

I should have my shit together by now.  I should be comfortable in my skin. 

Shouldn't I?

Q has turned 13.  He's in high school this year.

It was just yesterday I had a blonde, curly haired toddler running around the house with a hot wheels car in one hand, calling me 'mama', and falling asleep with his hand on my face.  Now, he's got feet bigger than mine.  With hair on his toes.  HAIR ON HIS TOES, PEOPLE.  Do you know he shaved for the first time on Wednesday?  He shaved the peach fuzz on his top lip that was getting darker and darker, almost by the day. He has thoughts and feelings separate from my own.  In face, purposely separate from my own.  Because you cannot agree with your mother.  You just cannot.  It seems like I blinked and he grew in the second it took.  I miss my baby.  I miss smelling his hair and apparently it's 'weird' to do that now. 
 
All of this has made me realize that I am powerless to stop time.  I cannot just ask to stop the ride so I can catch my bearings and figure out my next steps.  Life is going to keep going whether I participate in it or not. 

I don't want to waste the rest of my life mourning the past.  I've spent most of the year doing so and it hasn't gotten me anywhere.  I want to feel like I still have something to give, even though I'm (almost) 40.  Okay, so I'm not 20.  And who knows, maybe it's a good thing.  I can't change it, so I better accept it. 

But here's the thing.  Party stores sell supplies for 40th parties that say, "Over the Hill".  What is that nonsense?  Over the hill?!?!  What hill?  Was it a really small hill? 

I'm not sure I am ready to embrace 40.  Or embrace that I have a teenager.  I mean, I'll embrace the teenager - if he'll let me...