Perfectly Imperfect

One of the ways that my trauma has molded me is that I am somewhat of a control freak.  Ok, let’s be honest, the word “somewhat” should have been omitted.  My relationship with control is better described as an obsession.  An extreme unconscious belief that if I’m careful enough, vigilant enough and go over all possible scenarios enough that I can prevent future hurtful events or trauma from occurring.  My analytical brain’s best attempt at keeping me safe.  All-consuming.  Utterly exhausting.  And simply impossible.  My control obsession also presents itself as perfectionism.  A learned behavior fueled by my anxiety.  An egoic endeavor.  A disease of the mind maybe.  A type of neurosis even.  Constantly looking for faults.  Incessantly terrified of making mistakes.  An all-consuming, never ending, impossible effort. And such a hindrance to happiness.  Being alive means being imperfect.  Only dead things can be perfect.  Only when I am no longer breathing will I no longer make mistakes.  Living happily can only happen when I allow and expect imperfection.  All in my head.  In this undisciplined brain.  This problem-solving organ.  Its mission to look for problems and find solutions.  My heart on the other hand isn’t as logical.  This feeling organ.  Its eyes able to see beauty hidden in the flaws.  Maybe that’s what true love is all about.  In our ability to cherish the imperfections.  The blemishes actually making us love even more.  My traumas certainly run deep.  Understanding them is how I heal them.  And in case you needed to be reminded.  I am and you are already perfectly imperfect.

54

Nothing’s the same.  Everything’s the same.  Outside versus inside.  Another lap around the sun.  One year older.  I can feel it.  But only on the outside.  That’s what makes aging so weird.  The body is constantly changing.  Slowly falling apart once we reach a certain age.  But the part within us that moves through each of these body versions stays the same.  My outer form.  It definitely has a middle aged feel to it.  Even though I’m not quite sure what this age should feel like.  Sitting still.  Eyes closed.  I’m still the young boy in all of my childhood memories.  It’s almost like this is all just a dream.  Maybe that’s really all it is.  Feeling very grateful to still be breathing and able to feel it all.  So very fortunate to be able to witness me actually becoming more me.  Contemplating my existence on my birthday, I can’t really explain it any other way.  This is simply my truth.  My 54 year old truth.

 

It's time

Once you drop beyond the edge of darkness, even after you pull yourself back up, it leaves a trench.  And because of this, it’s so much easier to slip back down.  Even if I felt great on the bike last month, I had been riding too much.  Unconsciously caught up in the numbers.  Fueled by a certain sense of desperation.  My pedaling out of balance with being.  When riding is your medicine, the dosage is of the essence.  Not enough surely isn’t good.  But too much isn’t good either.  Deep down I knew that I wasn’t well.  Whenever I hyper focus on bikes it usually means that my riding has become but a distraction to avoid feeling something else.  During my last session with my psychologist, the term depression comes up numerous times.  The label doesn’t offend or frighten me.  In so many ways, I find it rather comforting.  What I feel is not “I no longer want to live” depressed.  But rather “I really need a deep rest” depressed.  Living in denial for such a long time can be so very exhausting like that.  The thing with breakdowns is that they’re invitations that can eventually lead to breakthroughs.  If we’re paying attention.  And if we’re willing to take a deep look at that which is.  Their purpose to slow everything down enough to enable us to get even a tiny glimpse of the truth hidden behind the darkness.  In this silent standstill.  As this fuzzy dimension slowly starts to lift.  As this new school year begins.  My own personal emotional homework right in front of me.  It’s time.