My daughter wrote a song called “Dear Anxiety”. It’s a breakup song. I’ll post it at the end.
But my “bad boyfriend” is Perfectionist.
Recently, I was processing. I think I have a book in me. But every time I try to write it, I hit a wall. My friend, Connie, a published author, encouraged me to give myself permission to just write. Write raw and unedited. Spew on paper (my words, not hers). Write till you’ve put down everything. Only then do you go back and mold it.
I realized that I hadn’t even blogged in months. So I gave myself permission and began to write.
I’m sharing this first writing session because I just don’t think I’m alone.
So jump in my journal.
Here’s what I wrote to break the silence:
Why am I so blocked? Why do I get so close to what I want and stop running? Why do I walk up to the wall and not climb it?
I haven’t given myself permission.
See, I grew up trying to please a perfectionist who grew trying to please a perfectionist before them, who grew up trying to please the perfectionist before them. You get the picture. Perfectionist’s opinion mattered more to me than anyone’s. Perfectionist made me feel like I walked on water, as long as I performed to perfection.
And the thing about perfection is that the definition changes faster than the stock market only the floor never closes for the day, so there is never any closure. Ever. Achievements, yes. Closure, never. There is no “there”.
Why do I feel like even writing about this makes me want a drink of wine? And I don’t even drink.
And why, just thinking about it all, did I just eat two servings of cookie dough Haggen Daas ice cream?