I feel as though every small bit of acceptance, true acceptance, every small bit of love, makes up the foundations that I can build my house on. They were so shaky before. I am so critical of myself that I imagine everyone else is too, which is why I can’t show people my neediness, my vulnerability, because my base instinct is to snatch it back, to hide it where it’s safe. When I have shown vulnerability in the past, it’s been dealt with in various ways, all damaging: ridicule, neglect, scorn. It’s been threatened with death, with icy words that threaten its life, like fingers closing repetitively and forcefully around a neck, just giving it enough respite to take another breath before it squeezes again. A slow and painful death. But it didn’t end up dying, it just hid itself very well.
I am trying to think that maybe being broken doesn’t necessarily mean you can’t be whole. I have such a high standard for myself, I am such a perfectionist, and yet…I am not perfect. I am so far from perfect that I fail on every conceivable level, because I set myself up for it. Not really my fault, because that is how I have been wired, if you like. It doesn’t mean that the wiring’s not wrong, though. I think I’ve felt that I just sort of had to get on with it. That it’s my fault that I’m wired wrong. It’s not my fault, but I am also the only one that can re-wire me so that I work properly.
It reminds me of Leonard Cohen’s Anthem:
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.
I have to try and have to forget my perfect offering. Because it doesn’t exist, even though I am blindly still working towards it. What I need to work towards is accepting the cracks, and accepting that they can make me whole, instead of trying to pretend that they aren’t there. Which is what I’m doing now, but ARGH! It’s bloody hard. Exhausting, and at the moment, debilitating.