It seems that my life will always be made up of a series of decisions, large and small. I actually used to still hope that someday I will have made every choice required and can live out the remainder (hopefully substantial) of my life without every belaboring the idea of red vs blue or car vs bus again. Bacon or sausage. Chicken or beef. Coffee or tea. Sober or not. Religion vs spirituality. The endless parade of items requiring my attention and choice-making are usually simple, but that doesn’t mean the the choice itself is not fraught with anxiety and fear. What if I choose cheese instead of turkey today? What if that choice is not actually what hubby wanted, even though he said anything was fine. What if he refuses to eat it? I will then feel guilty and stupid for not anticipating his unspoken desire for turkey and berate myself for days. Eventually I will sink into depression again and begin to await the inevitable (in my mind) divorce papers.
My husband is actually the kindest and most understanding of individuals. I once explained my jump from beef for dinner (he wanted fish, but didn’t say so) to the outcome of him divorcing me, having to find a new place to live, a job, what would happen to the puppies…?! He was flabbergasted. How does one so quickly spiral down into such dire consequences from such a simple choice? I’ll tell you.
When one lives their entire childhood with unreasonable expectations of perfection in an untenable and neglected situation, they learn to cope in several different ways, one of which is to never make the ‘wrong choice’. For fear of abandonment, for fear of verbal and emotional abuse, for fear of ‘unseen’, mysterious and hinted at horrors that await. The most terrible of all consequences was disapproval from parents, which lurked constantly. Living in such an isolated position as I did, my only real mirroring of acceptable behaviour was from my parents. I strove for perfection, acceptance, praise. Even when I did excellently, approval rarely voiced or showed itself. I think in some ways it was assumed that I would ‘know’ when I was doing well, hence the words need not be spoken. I didn’t know. None of us knew when we did well. We always knew when we’d failed either in reality or in our parent’s eyes.
Failure becomes the worst sin. Sin is everywhere, you cannot escape it. Soon Fear rules you and you trip even more from the pressure you put yourself under to be perfect. Children, however, are not generally driven to perfection unless it is intimated by their first human contacts that it is important above all. The small girl learns quickly to protect herself from anguish by always agreeing to be helpful whether she should or not, to never say no to adults, to never have a thought or idea that is not sanctioned, to never be herself, because it is dangerous. She learns it is not safe to express emotion, to ever make a mistake, to always know how to divert quarrels between the parents if she and her brothers are to have any sort of a peaceful or normal life.
Perfectionism for some is a personality trait, perhaps. For me, it was a learned behaviour required for my survival.
I always supposed before that my inability to choose was based on my logic and willingness to look at all possible outcomes beforehand. Truthfully, it was my absolutely paralyzing fear of making the wrong choice and living with the disapproval of those around me. Most people didn’t give a crap what I did, but even at 30, my parents’ disapproval either spoken or otherwise still weighs so heavily on me that I have to simply not ask or tell them what I’m planning until I’m cemented and strong in my decision outside of their response. I hate this, but one day I hope to be able to be strong enough to make decisions and share my choices with them without the overwhelming dread and panic at what they will say and how I will feel small and stupid for choosing something they might not like. I’m still a child in this area. I’m still the 11 year old girl washing the forks 5 times over before Mom comes to inspect again just in case because I’d rather go overboard rather than hear that I’ve failed again.
Someday, this little girl too will grow up because she is feeling safer each day and stronger in her choices. One day.
Until then, here we are. 🙂 One day at a time, one struggle, one panic, one fear at a time.
Lost in Words 