I'm a perfectionist. It's a well-known trait of many alcoholics and drug addicts that we have a very all-or-nothing attitude. If we can't do things perfectly, we'd rather not do them at all. When I was growing up, my sisters and brother would be patiently coming at video games or their homework or whatever again and again, patient and willing to keep trying until they figured it out. Me? If I didn't figure it out right off the bat, I would throw the Nintendo joystick at the television and stalk off in a huff. Fortunately, there were many things I picked up quickly, so I was never at a total loss for things to do.
The problem is, perfectionism doesn't work so well in real life. It's an extremely unrealistic standard to strive to achieve. Like with food and eating. I woke up this morning realizing that what I thought were menstrual cramps were actually the beginnings of a stomach virus. Well, once I realized I wasn't going to eat my regular breakfast of egg whites and oatmeal, it was off to the races. I'm either all the way in or all the way out. That's quite a bit of pressure to have on yourself all the time and it leaves me precariously teetering on the edge of "F*** it-ville" all the time. (For those of you who haven't visited F*** it-ville, consider yourselves lucky. It's quite a depressing place.)
So, here I am, back in F*** it-ville, and homesick for my normal state of self-acceptance and contentment. I'll get there. Thank goodness it only takes prayer and hard work to get there. 'Cause as good ole Dorothy said, "There's no place like home..."