Perfectionist Rehab

Discernment can be defined as the ability to judge well. Perception in the absence of hostile criticism, aiming to conclude reality.

I don’t have many convictions, but I am convinced that kindness without truth is manipulation and truth without kindness is brutality. Sometimes the right thing to do in a situation is to just pull yourself back. Restrain yourself and bite your tongue because sometimes the correct course of action has nothing to do with the details of the situation you’re in or the decision you’re trying to make.

Sometimes the right course of action is as simple as preserving a relationship. Treating other people’s emotions as though they are too precious to even chance shattering them. I always thought that it was a good thing to make sure that you’re always putting other people before you, but then the paradox is that people will remind you that that’s codependency.

“You need to learn to be self-sufficient.”

“Don’t rely on external validation to extrapolate your self-worth.”

I take other people’s opinions for gospel. This doesn’t matter if I like or respect the other person; by virtue of being a separate entity than myself, they must be more trustworthy than I.

I listen to other people’s opinions of me. You’re not supposed to do that.

My reputation is the only thing that has ever mattered to me. Who are we if we outside of our relationships?

Who cares how kind you think you are if no one else agrees?

If you have nobody around you, are you loveable?

If other people don’t view you as worth being around, how can you deduce that you’re a decent person?

“Relativism will be your destruction.” Comparison gives things meaning.

Discernment is only conceptualized through the perception of opposites.

The concept of goodness only has meaning through the perception of evil.

Light only has meaning because of darkness.

Yin and Yang.

Virtue and Sin.

North and South.

I don’t understand how to love myself if I am not loved.

There comes a point in life where you realize you have all the tools that you need. Now the goal is simpler: dedicate yourself to put into practice but you’ve already learned. Control your impulses. Commit yourself to the behavior you think you possess.

Sometimes I think life puts us through trials just so that we can prove that we are the people we pretend to be.

Are you truly a patient person if you’re only calm in smooth seas?

Are you truly a kind person if you talk shit the moment the opportunity presents?

I was in therapy for twenty-five years. I have been presented the toolbox countless times at this point.

I studied my own brain. Reactions. Trauma. Impulses. Coping mechanisms.

I was fully illuminated and dissected under the scrutinous light of psychotherapy for two-thirds of my life.

I decided that it was time to stop ruminating over what was.

I chose to shift my focus into what is.

I heard recently that the only way to rewire our neurological structures is through meditation and mindfulness practices. I’ve also been told by a few therapists that the difference between someone who heals from post-traumatic stress disorder, and those who do not, is exercise.

I regret to inform you that exercise actually works (I know, I’m sorry).

I had to stop going to therapy. There were a lot of reasons for this.

1. I had been going for twenty-five years.
2. I was always talking about the same things
3. I was receiving the same tools and coping mechanisms
4. I needed to take control of my thoughts, and no one else could do that for me
5. My therapist crossed a line.

I was still in therapy throughout my first year of motherhood. I was deeply triggered and overwhelmed by my life. I was frustrated that my husband’s experience of parenting was totally different than mine.

He wasn’t prone to hysterics. He wasn’t having panic attacks. He wasn’t berating himself over simple mistakes.

He wasn’t suffering.

I wanted support from a professional because I was genuinely concerned that there was something wrong with me. I knew that parenting was going to be challenging. I was expecting to feel like I had dissolved in the process. I was angry all the time.

“I adore my baby, why is this so hard?”

I reached out to my therapist to ask for help with how I was approaching my marriage. I knew that I was carrying resentment for things that were not directly my husband’s fault. They were situations that we were presented simply because we don’t have families outside of each other.

My therapist was filled with feminist rage.

I discussed feeling suffocated by the standards I had imposed on myself.

1. Obsessive diaper monitoring out of fear that I was neglecting him if he had to wait more than a few seconds
2. Never averting my gaze from my baby in case he got hurt.
3. Attending every cry and whine out of fear that I was neglecting him and he would be taken away
4. Sterilizing our home three times a day so that my baby wouldn’t get sick (spoiler alert: he got sick anyway)

“Well, that’s motherhood.”

I discussed my rage over the external pressure I was feeling. I was terrified that people would judge me harsh enough that my baby would be stolen from me.

“That’s how society treats women.”

I discussed my frustration over household tasks, grocery lists, and the never-ending loads of laundry. I felt like the default parent, and I was depleted in every way.

“You should just divorce him.”

I knew I had to fire her then and there.

The truth is that life has seasons. We were in a tough phase. We were at each other’s throats more often than not.

My husband is imperfect. He doesn’t always treat me well. I’m also imperfect. I’ve not always treated him well either. I overreact when I’m stressed out. I speak harshly. I’m the kind of person that will go for the jugular when I’m mad.

My therapist only had my side to the story, and it was sufficient for her to pass judgment.

I knew that it was time for me to move on.

I’ve always put other people before myself. I expect other people to put me before themselves sometimes too.

I decided to pull up my own bootstraps. I realized I was expecting my husband to fill my metaphorical cup.

That’s my job, not his.