Always having been a perfectionist, I detest my own shortcomings. I imprison myself in a tomb of unrealistic expectations, sinking deeper in despair when I am unable to be the unattainable version of who I expect myself to be. My inability to escape the prison that I built is equally disgusting. The cycle of disappointment in myself sends unwanted ripples out around me -- accompanied by more despair as I hurt the only people kind and patient enough to love me.
Recently I learned that the whole scenario described above is unacceptable and untolerable. I'm determined to break through and move beyond the walls of the prison to a place where I am free to be someone less restricted. Some days I find myself in a lonely valley, a recently-released prisoner adrift in a sea of unfamiliar faces and in a scary new environment. Other days my flesh tingles with the ecstatic feeling of release.
My father, poster child for the mentally ill, routinely uses the phrase, "It is what it is." My son, also, knows the beauty of the world and has an inspiring grip on the important kernels of a meaningful life. I love that I learn most from a toddler and an insane old man.
