Do It My Way, or Don’t Do It at All

What happens when things don’t according to MY plan…

This essay may be a little messy, a little upside-down, a little imperfect, because I’m finding out that I’m a little messy, and maybe a little imperfect, too?

When you’re a child, and you grow up in a family that’s somewhat dysfunctional, and you don’t know exactly what’s going on––though you know something’s not right–– you try everything you can to feel in control. To feel safe.

You receive subtle and not-so-subtle messages that you should be different. You should love clothing, shopping, and dressing up. You should like boys, not girls. You should want long hair, not crewcuts. You should be an overachiever, you shouldn’t talk about anything too personal, and if things aren’t going well for you, no one should know about it. Everything’s fine, all the time. My life was ruled by the word “should.”

“Perfect” was an expectation in my house. Presenting a stunning veneer felt mandatory. We looked good, smelled good, had great style, and our opinions were the “right” opinions. My parents were meticulous in everything they touched. Our house was just-so, nothing was out of place, no mail piled up, no dirt anywhere, no unruly stacks of books piled high-to-tipping-over on our nightstands. We made our beds every day, impeccably. If we sat in the living-room, the sofa cushions and throw pillows had to be fluffed up each time we rose to leave; the room had to appear as if no one ever used it. I never understood why it mattered so much. I don’t blame my folks, that’s what they learned from their folks. And living in a beautiful space is lovely.

It was hard for me as a kid, because when you’re a kid, who cares? My parents cared. They often had standards that lacked flexibility. I never, ever got dirty. No mud, no grass stains, no mess. But you know what? Life is messy. People are messy. There’s no way to avoid it, try as we might.

For god’s sake, my father used to wrap gifts with the most exquisite paper, a ruler, a pencil, and invisible tape. He’d measure the paper, marking it with a light pencil dash at the appropriate fold, so that when the job was finished, the perfect points at each end were precisely the same size and length. And if the paper had a pattern, the edges came together to match.

The deeper problem, the real problem, was the family secrets. No one was telling the truth. There were problems in my family that we didn’t talk about. My mother and father weren’t honest with themselves or each other about their relationship. Because of that, there was perpetual tension beneath a delicate façade.

When you grow up in a dysfunctional family system, you learn not to trust yourself or anyone else. Then you buy into the illusion that you know what everyone else needs. You have a graduate degree in hyper-vigilance. You project your fear of not being perfect onto other people and situations. You want everything to be nice all the time.

What might be news to you is something I’ve been aware of for years. Here it is, don’t be shocked:

I AM ONE OF THE MOST TALENTED CONTROL FREAKS ANYONE’S EVER MET.

When I shift into “I alone can fix it” mode (scary phrase, isn’t it?), it’s a sign that I’m not at peace with myself. Something needs attention. Whatever I’m picking at, or criticizing, or trying to control is a direct message from my higher power to look more closely at myself and get curious about what the hell is going on underneath my insatiable need to have everything go my way, all the time. It has nothing to do with sofa cushions.

My perfectionism is a sickness that alienates me from others over and over. I become angry and resentful when things don’t turn out they way I’d prefer. Then I spiral into feeling helpless, and that makes me want to control things even more. My need to control everything disempowers other people instead of supporting them in attaining their own positive outcomes.

There’s a little 5-year-old gremlin who takes up space in my head. That gremlin looks a lot like me and wears a scowl to go with a growl and the “oh, my god” eyerolls that I can’t seem to conceal when things aren’t going according to plan. Whose plan, you might ask? Mine. My plan.

What do you mean, I’m not in charge of everything? I’m not the boss of you??? How can that possibly be?

I know you can’t grok it, because I’m such a doll. I’m generous, loving, and supportive. Likable. Lovable. Those are aspects of who I am. But the other side? When I’m at my worst? I have an opinion about everything you say or do, I always know a way for you to do it better, and I don’t trust that you can figure out your own stuff without my input. I rarely think to ask if my feedback is welcome.

What I’m discovering, through my recovery process, is that I do have many talents, and I’m learning that there’s no such thing as all good or all bad. I’m an effective teacher, a kind friend, a good writer, a skilled designer, and I’m smart and funny. I’m detail-oriented, which is excellent when applied to my profession, but a major obstacle when I expect everyone to be just like me.

For the last 15 months, I’ve been making friends with my higher self. Most days, I’m all in. Everything flows smoothly. I want that sense of peace on a regular basis with all my heart. Then something will happen that pushes a button, and my control freak breaks through the surface to try and fix what’s not broken. It’s an old coping mechanism that helped me feel secure for a long time, that helped me feel less powerless. It no longer works; for me, or anyone else.

As I progress in recovery, I’m learning to spot my controlling behavior faster than I used to. I meet myself in the mirror every time I attend a meeting. The most excruciating days are the ones when I show up as my critical self. Last week was awful. But I keep going back. I do service in my meeting; I share how I’m feeling. When I fall, I dust myself off, make amends to people I’ve wronged; I ask for help, and I pray for change.

I’m learning about the grace that comes with humility.

When the tough stuff comes up, I ask questions. Do I want a life dominated by that little gremlin who needs to be in charge, so that I can walk around feeling smug, superior and self-righteous? Do I want to be alone? Fuck no, I don’t.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the people I cannot change, the courage to change the one I can, and the wisdom to know that one is me.

I’ve been saying that prayer several thousand times a day for the past week. Most of the time I only need to say it once or twice a day. This week required a more dedicated effort to remind myself that the only person I’m “in charge of” is me.

Today, I hosted my meeting. I read from our script; made lots of mistakes and smiled at each one. I understood that I don’t have to be perfect. Because there’s no such thing.

I’m going to keep digging around in the dirt and getting grass stains on my knees. For now, if you need help with something, I’m going to send you down the road to consult with someone wiser than I. I’ll only offer my opinion if you ask for it. And I’ll be humble when I give it to you. In the meantime, I’ll be over here sitting on the side of the road, minding my own business, and cheering for the different ways each of us does life.

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