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.