embracing imperfection

I am hesitant to start writing again. I mean, I guess I never really stopped writing, considering the chaotic catalog of anxious musings in my iPhone Notes app. But my reluctance to make more of an effort is not for a lack of passion or a fear of not being good enough (okay, maybe a little fear of not being good enough). It is not a worry about what hidden darknesses may expose themselves, because I’ve already found most of them. It is because of my paralyzing need to maintain the delusion of perfection in an attempt to convince myself that this tumultuous life is safely under control. But I know it’s not. And that’s okay. It’s actually rather delightful.

Writing is something I love. Something I have loved my entire life. It is how I have always expressed myself most accurately and wholeheartedly. And I need to do that now more than ever. So I am more than willing to sacrifice the illusion of perfection to rediscover and cultivate my relationship with something that makes me feel alive. Because when I actually think about it, I don’t even want to be perfect. I don’t want anything I touch or create or imagine or love to be perfect. Because perfect isn’t real. And I am so done with not being real! The sham of flawlessness is the most unsatisfying and invalidating misconception of reality I have ever experienced. And I am desperate not to fall back into the dangerous allure of living an unblemished life. But the fantasy is powerful. It tempts me with promises of happiness and success that vanish into thin air the second I get within arms reach.

So I will keep fighting back, little by little, against the need to control my life by making sure everything is immaculately kept in pristine condition. No, this time I will fight to be real. I will embrace the glorious mess of exploring myself through creativity. And that starts with me writing for the sake of writing. Writing makes me feel brave. Writing heals me. And I need that in my life.