If you’re not interested in watching me eviscerate myself, turn away…I mean, right now…don’t read another word. If you’re ok with a little blood accompanied by an unvarnished admission, read on.
I know it’s genesis….
My father demanded nothing but perfection.
My trumpet teacher broke me to tears weekly.
My first employer, the beloved Al the Butcher, expected nothing but excellence.
My uncle lamented about his students who didn’t measure up to his expectations.
You get the picture.
I’ve been fueled by the need to be perfect throughout my career, rarely feeling the satisfaction of a job well done. Even the publication of my two books left me feeling like it could have been better.
Intellectually, I know this is all nonsense. But it haunts me still, even as I practice trumpet and stumble through passages that are never quite good enough. I find myself bristling at my lack.
At this point in my life you’d think I would be able to get over the ridiculous feelings of inadequacy. Perfectionism SUCKS, and it’s time to aim my imperfect attention at quelling this monster that sucks the joy out of life.
I’m trying.
Have you tamed the monster? How did you do it?
