While reading about perfectionism in Brene Brown’s book, Daring Greatly, I began thinking contentedly about how many aspects of perfectionism I have confronted in myself over the past decade. Now, I regularly notice and redirect the instinct to chase perfectionism. It raises its ugly little head, I recognize it, load my gun with perspective and shoot a double tap to its head. Dead. Gone. Victory dance.
But as I’m sitting there proudly reminiscing about my conquest of Perfectionism, I catch a glimpse of something in my peripheral vision. Just out of my line of sight, there is movement in the shadows. A shapeless form lurks, and when it notices that I see it, it runs for cover. I pursue it and discover a cramped, dark room where my Perfectionism has been hiding out. It has a bunker! And with that recognition, the lights suddenly flip on and flood Perfectionism’s little home: a small, dingy, dank little stone hole of a room. The walls are lined to the ceiling with supplies to sustain it. There are shelves filled with boxes of my insecurities, polished weapons hang from the rafters, and enormous piles of canned doubts litter the floor. A ragged table is scattered with maps strategizing the weakest points of entry into my psyche. To say Perfectionism is well-prepared is an understatement. To say it is relentless is a fact.
It’s now obvious that since I’ve been effectively reducing its arsenal over the past few years by dismantling its weapons one at a time, it has simply burrowed deeper underground in order to survive. It has become even more covert and clandestine. Holed up in its bunker, Perfectionism has invented new weapons and more devious techniques, while keeping those that are still functional in good working order. It has tried to remain in the shadows and out of sight of my conscious mind, but now I see the little bastard. I know it’s there.
So, I launch a raid, and begin destroying its supplies. First I demolish the piles of cans filled with the doubts of my own value. Then I sabotage the weapons that target my insecurities. And lastly, I torch the maps that layout the path to my weakest moments of exhaustion and fear, and send them up in flames. Before I leave, I plant a pipe bomb of perspective and light the fuse. I hear the satisfying sound of an explosion as I’m sprinting down the corridors.
The raid is a success! The bunker is in ashes, and it will take some time for Perfectionism to set up a new camp.
As I collapse on the ground to catch my breath, (and do a small victory dance), it occurs to me that this is an invaluable practice to follow: Bunker Raids. Periodically, I need to re-visit those old destructive patterns in myself that I already know exist. I need to set up a stake out and stalk them so I can discover where they are hiding out. Because each time I smoke out where these patterns are living, and what they are surviving on, I can reduce their rations. Their power will diminish, forcing them into smaller quarters with less efficient weapons. Eventually, raid by raid, they get weaker, and my victory dance gets a little longer.