I was holding onto the weight of perfection — and drowning.
Why didn’t I drop it, let it go, watch it float away?
I don’t know. All I know is that I felt like I couldn’t, that I shouldn’t. That letting go of the weight would be an admission of weakness, an admission of failure. I didn’t want to be known as a failure.
And yet holding onto perfection was killing me, literally and figuratively. Holding onto the weight, I found myself stuck in a fog of depression, eating disorders, and alcoholism. Staying here, my view was obstructed and it was hard to make a decision. I wasn’t sure when I was going to hit a wall that I wouldn’t be able to get past, where the impact of hitting would maim or kill me. If I stayed in the fog, I somehow knew that was how things would end. I just didn’t know when.
Perfection, such a seductive weight to carry. It called to me, singing my name; promising magical powers, riches, fame, happiness, everything. It said everything would work out — if I held onto it. It told me about “there,” a place where I’d be perfect all of the time. It all sounded so good (and it seemed like a lot of other people were heading “there” too). I headed off.
And — it seemed like I could never quite reach “there,” that there was always another hill to climb or valley to go through. The weight of perfection got heavier and heavier, though promised me that this was normal. Yet nothing I ever did seemed like enough. I started to wonder if I was enough. I started to doubt that I was.