Recovering Perfectionist

I call myself a recovering perfectionist.

Recovering.   Rediscovering.   Finding something lost.  Guarding the discovery.

Years of striving, seeking, organizing, cleaning, reaching, even grasping for that unattainable prize - perfect.

There was a voice inside of me that defined my worth by the perfectness;  by the cleanliness of my house, the hygiene and clothing choices, the intelligence of my children, the healthiness of my cooking and a million other criteria for which the measurements never cease.    My worth.    The value of me.

In truth, the voice never quite disappears.   In the past, the voice screamed at me - You are just not enough.  No matter what you to do to clean, cook, create, appear... you will never be enough.

Two decades ago, I began to talk to back to that ugly voice... begging it to come out, name its master. At first, I cautiously challenged the voice, wondering if, perhaps, my worth had less to do with my success or the fleeting praises of others and more to do with who I was created to be.   As time passed, I became bold enough to yell directly in the face of that lying voice...

"Perfection equals my worth" over time became "I have worth because He created me and loves me."  Walking in freedom from that voice is no one-time thing.

Freedom requires a daily deep breath.   Freedom requires lots of reflection time when there are visitors in my home who don't see all the beauty in my wood floors with big gaps where bugs and geckos enter, windows that don't close completely and 6-inch open spaces between the top of my walls and the roof.    The dust that flows in and out, the rust on my refrigerator... I see their eyes and hear their quiet comments and I sneak away to just get a grip on myself.

Freedom from perfectionism requires going back to the beginning of this calling and reminding myself that I miss ZERO of the 'things' I gave away or sold.  People, I miss.  Comfort, I miss. Freedom requires accepting that I am different, here and there ... never quite finding that 'deep understanding' that I crave.

When I am in the US, I feel the familiar tug to be 'a part' of what is going on, while recognizing that my budget won't allow it and the other side of my heart doesn't even understand the motive behind most of what is happening on US soil.

When I am in Honduras, I feel 'rich'...  no matter the situation, I have a US passport, a small savings account, a house that is paid for with enough room for my family.  I do not have to worry about how to feed or clothe my children.     While we live below the US poverty level, we live way above the Honduran poverty level.

The dichotomy of me is maturing, more comfortable in the dual nature of itself.   "Enough" in both spaces - US and Honduras - and truly all spaces in between.