THE
WORD "perfectionism" has a way of popping up in AA talks,
and some alcoholics will confess that they suffered
from a desire to be perfect in everything.
Perfectionism is a liability, not an asset. For the alcoholic, it
usually ends in sloth. The individual has such high standards, such
exaggerated goals, that he may take the opposite route and do nothing
well. He really wants to be best; failing that, he settles for mediocrity
or less. And he clings fiercely to his perfectionism despite the picture
of failure he presents to the world.
Naturally, this perfectionism has to be dumped if a person is going to
remain sober and achieve within the limits set by his own abilities and
the world he lives in. But if perfectionism is a liability, perfection is
not. Any individual can reach perfection in his life if he truly seeks
it.
This sounds astonishing, since we are told repeatedly that "Perfection
is for saints" and "Only God is perfect." But perfection is nothing more
than adequacy or completeness. When we recognize that, it comes to us that
a lot of things in our lives are indeed perfect.
For one thing, I take constant delight in the perfection of my
seven-year-old automobile, which just passed the 92,000-mile mark. It is
on its second paint job and fourth set of tires, and the beautiful seat
covers (which I bought last year after unexpectedly selling a magazine
article) were installed moments before the original upholstery
disintegrated totally. But the car runs well and seems capable of three or
four more years of good service. Is it stretching the point to say that my
aging but comfortable car is perfect, since it is entirely adequate for my
requirements?
Then there is the house my family has lived in for the past four years.
I think of it as a perfect house, because it has sheltered us well and we
have been completely happy in it. Some people could find flaws here and
there. Three lively boys have left their marks on the carpeting, and the
patterned glass panels of the shower doors no longer match, because my
three-year-old shattered a pane during a particularly exciting bath one
evening. The house lacks a basement, and sometimes the family room is a
little chilly in the evenings, because it is a converted garage. But the
house has been so adequate that we'll never think of it as less than
perfect, even if fortune should eventually install us in a palace.
Automobiles, houses. A lot of alcoholic perfectionism does center
around things of a material nature. I never owned a car or a house when I
was drinking, but my foolish fantasies included the biggest and best of
both. If I had owned a car, I would have brooded over every blemish and
the slightest rattle; I simply couldn't have accepted it for what it was,
a vehicle for transportation, and let it go at that. The house I wanted
was a big one, with only the finest furniture and a massive bar in the
basement. But if I had finally owned it, I wouldn't have been satisfied;
sooner or later, I would have uncovered grotesque defects and shortcomings
in it.
What about myself and my own achievements? My dreams were so grandiose
that I'm still ashamed to talk about them. I wanted to excel in
everything, and I couldn't stand the thought of being second-best in any
activity. The result, as you may easily guess, is that I was often
last--because I never even tried.
It occurs to me today that this perfectionism was very costly indeed,
for there were many times that I could have been second- or third-best,
and this would have been an entirely respectable achievement that people
would have applauded. And at times, I might even have been first,
particularly with the improved skill that comes from repeated trying. But
instead I withdrew from all competition and consoled myself with the great
things I might have done. We hear all the time about alcoholics who
could have done so well if only they had tried.
Well, why didn't they try? Wasn't it through fear that they could not
achieve at the high level of their own fantasies? Did they prefer an
exalted fantasy life to the real but less exciting achievements possible
through their own capabilities? Did they choose a false "what might have
been" over a tangible "what really could be"? Perhaps they did. Certainly
I did.
Looking back over my years in AA, I can recall lots of incidents that
did not go particularly well and would probably be called imperfect by the
world's standards. There was the time a prison inmate suddenly became
angry with me at a meeting inside the walls, and I left feeling disturbed
and inadequate, certain I had nothing to say to prison AA members. There
was another time I offered advice that did absolutely nothing at all for
the individual I was trying to help. There is also the humbling
realization that apparently no person I ever sponsored has remained
sober.
But there's good in all of this. The encounter with the inmate taught
me that I was probably prancing into the prison AA meetings with a
patronizing attitude, an outsider bringing light and salvation to the
oppressed. Later, I became a little less patronizing, and nobody got mad
any more. As for giving advice, my mistakes in that area taught me to
leave advice-giving to Ann Landers in all but extreme circumstances. And
the fact that nobody I sponsored ever got sober? Well, I have concluded
that I am no worse than many sponsors and that I have given certain
individuals some assistance--and that all of us were helped in the
process.
Any of our experiences should teach us lessons, which in turn help us
in our future growth. If the lessons were sufficient, they were perfect
lessons, in spite of the cost in personal humiliation and pain. Even our
drinking was a step toward perfection if it eventually led to something
better--as it obviously did for so many AA members.
All of us are limited creatures
in search of more adequacy, in search of more completion
in our own lives. If something is adequate for its own
time and place, it deserves to be called perfect. By
that standard, most of us have been reaching perfection
right along without realizing it. Perfectionism was
a tyrant we could never appease, but we are delightfully
perfect when we become adequate--which, in a way, is
becoming ourselves.
M.
D. B.
Jackson,
Michigan
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