There’s an anger that bubbles, rises, bursts forth, and has been the last four or five month. It’s an anger that blinds and is seemingly unforgiving. It’s an anger that leaves me swimming in a haze of let down, a sea of longing, and often a cloud of hopelessness or despair. It is an anger that brings all of that but it also brings a relief. A relief that is growing greater with each day I realise the power behind this anger.
The anger? It’s the anger that nothing is perfect. That noone is perfect. That I am not perfect. That my body and health isn’t perfect. That my parents weren’t perfect, in fact, were FAR from fucking perfect. That no therapist will ever be perfect. That no place I live, house or place, is perfect or ticks all the boxes of need in a perfect way. That there is no perfect place I can go to rest, cry, heal. That no person can provide perfect support. That no friend is perfect. That the world isn’t perfect, and is in fact a fucked up place to be a lot of the time.
The relief I speak of? That, because of the fact that nothing is perfect, it means that I don’t have to be perfect either. This relief, only small but there, gives hope but it just doesn’t soften the anger. It doesn’t soften the longing. The desperate, knee crippling and painful longing to just have one thing perfect in my life. I just know that deep inside, this fact – that I don’t have to be perfect – will eventually bring its own health. It will be its own gift when I can truly connect with it and let myself off the hook. It will be a breeze of ease, that will eventually come and heal the pressure, the longing, the desperation, the criticising. And the searching.
The searching for the perfect thing, is so fucking painful. It’s continuous heartbreak. It shreds and rips up your paper of hope, yet the paper is seemingly endless because why else would you continue searching? If the paper of hope was well and truly ripped, the search would end. It’s hope that keeps the hunt, the search, going. Keeps you running, keeps you dreaming. And keeps you never ever feeling ‘met’. It keeps the pain alive, but I also think we need a journey of this – running and searching – to realise how much it fucking sucks. To realise that, despite how much we want it, the world is so much fucking easier when we don’t have to be perfect. And that nothing else needs to be either.
When the paper of hope is well and truly crushed – the hope for the perfect thing dies – the grief comes. The rage. The blinding anger. The excruciating heartbreak, deeper than you’d ever known before. My paper of hope has completely crashed, burned, crumpled, shredded, and whittled away into tiny fluttering scatters, drifting by in the wind sometimes. The pain that this brings is seemingly endless but it’s different to the searching pain. It’s the healing pain. It’s a pain that is leading towards an allowance and an ease and a forgiveness – of myself and of others. It’s Healing Bullshit lingo going on now. The anger that I begun writing this post with has dwindled and I can hardly keep my eyes open. And I just want to go OUTSIDE, which I am about to.
This anger is here at the moment because of a load of weird fucking shit going down with my therapist. And in and amongst it all, she is currently ticking none of the fucking perfect boxes and it is so painful. Never have I felt this pain, this grief, this heartbreak. It. Fucking. Sucks. Beyond. Words. And I’m exhausted from all the sob-athons.
But one thing I know, as much as I hate to admit it, is that I think it’s me slowly, slowly, making my way towards peace with the nothing’s-perfect thing. It just hurts like a motherfucker.