Beautifully Broken

When I first started talking to people about perfectionism, having identified perfectionist tendencies as a contributor to a break down, I was of the opinion that I needed to rid myself of this characteristic. Anyone reading previous posts will be able to join up the dots and see how important it was for me try and do things better than other people, how this was a rule I had for myself that helped to hide away what I really knew, which was that I  wasn’t good enough.

Perfectionism was a force greater than me. It would make demands of me; drive me to work harder and longer and with more and more focus… like a madness. I didn’t realise it at the time, but it was pushing me to breaking point. I was exercising excessive care and attention to even the most mundane tasks. It was a mechanism within me tightly wound that demanded everything or nothing. It was a ruthless task master. When I found myself breaking I tried to take my foot off the pedal, but I couldn’t, then I knew I had a problem. It was the realisation one tired day that I didn’t know how to do things any other way.

I wondered, is perfectionism a plague to be extinguished? We all have diverse talents and a place in our complex and old societies. I would have to learn to enjoy perfectionism and exercise it at will, rather than have it control me. I took comfort from the intricate works of Islamic art in the V&A museum. I felt somehow connected to these works and their creators, as though we somehow shared the same madness. The pursuit of perfection was, for these artists, a form of worship.

It made me turn to my depression and look too at this, and its usefulness. Every cloud as they say… I know my writing stemmed from this depression and my relationship with it. I knew too that it had strengthened my friendships and relationships. I had come to know myself and others more intimately. I had made choices that take courage.

Did I want to be better, cured, to be fixed? I think….. no… I’d rather learn to be beautifully broken.