#39 Progress, not perfection

I don’t know how to start this. I’ve been avoiding writing on this Substack for the longest time and, there’s an obvious reason why. I am at war with myself. The war entails a bloody battle with sobriety and trying to figure out what recovery looks like for me, after convincing myself that if I don’t do it perfectly, then I have no right to write about my journey under the name that I’ve chosen for my oh-so-precious Substack.

When I have the courage, I will fill you all in. You, my beautiful readers, who have been so faithful in reading what I have to say about whatever is on my mind. I desperately don’t want to disappoint you. I do not want to seem like a fraud. So, when I’m ready and I find the words, I will share my battles with you. And trust that my vulnerability is my strength, as it always has been.

I haven’t written for myself in the longest time. I’m afraid what might come up on the page. I’ve been avoiding myself, just as I avoid conflict and anything else that is uncomfortable. But something is bursting within me. And I’ve received too many signs signalling that I simply cannot avoid what I was clearly made to do.

I would like to thank a beautiful woman for giving me the courage to sit and write this. To be uncomfortable. To share my shameful thoughts with you all. I have loved the content she posts as a fellow sober companion, except, recently, I’ve looked up to her for her journey more than anything else. I didn’t realise she was following me and when I found out that she has mutual respect for me (by chance), it was such a big moment. How could she love, respect and admire a pleb like me?

How could SHE admire someone like me? Immediately, thoughts of how she doesn’t actually know me and might think otherwise if she did flood my mind. What she likes about me are positive things I choose to portray, right? But would she feel the same at my worst — those moments of utter despair, where I’m desperate to have someone tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do with all these feelings.

Perfection. I have always aimed for it, without even realisin. I’m scared of what you will all think of me if I tell you: I don’t got this. This is hard.

For the life of me, it is hard to imagine that people look up to me. And I suppose, this is where my problem lies. My inherent belief that if I’m not perfect, I am not loveable is something that feels so deeply real. Will they still love me if I reveal my imperfections?

I’ve been proven wrong so many times. But instead of attributing grace to human nature, I attribute it to the person. How lucky am I to have people in my life who will still look at me the same way despite me being imperfect? How blessed I am to be forgiven for not being the one who has her shit together after fucking everything up?

I’m tired. More of myself than anything else. I’m tired of not trusting people in my life. I’m tired of feeling like I’ll be abandoned if I don’t mask my feelings. I’m tired of the anxiety and depression that comes with not living up to my impossible standards.

I’m tired of me. I’m tired of hiding. I’m tired of fear. The point of this Substack was to be honest and genuine and vulnerable — things that weirdly come naturally to me.

I suppose, this is a start.

Progress, not perfection.