The problem with perfectionists, albeit not the only one, is that they make mountains out of mole hills. A failure to rise to the occasion. A moment of stupidity. An error that not even an eighteen-year-old rookie writer should or would have made.
The lies, mixed with a kernel of truth, grow to uncontrollable proportions. The perfectionist can’t shoulder them. She is no Atlas. She falls to earth, wants to disappear in the earth. Banged-up knees and elbows. A bloody shin, bruised cheekbone.
Worry and fear become her constant companions. She limps through the days and thinks, “What if I’m fired? How could I not be after proving myself such an abject failure over and over again?”
The questions follow her wherever she goes. They keep her company as she works. They soak into her pillow. Insomnia becomes her best friend.
She becomes uncertain, a fact that only makes the original problem worse. She can’t overcome a mole hill or a mountain when she’s lost in false accusations and worry. She becomes a boat tossed to and fro.
What is she to do? Running from the mountain doesn’t work. She turns. She faces the fears head-on. She seeks advice from wise counselors and friends. She talks about the problem with her employer.
She also spends time with the truth. She remembers where her identity is found, and it isn’t found in being a writer or an artist or anything else. It’s found in being the daughter of the great and mighty and glorious King. He calls her by name no matter how many times she fails, no matter how many times she acts the fool. With Him, she can keep the mountain at its true proportion: a mole hill.
Image: Strep72 (Creative Commons)