Mediocrity

Five minutes into the first class of the final semester, I realized I was done with being in school.

I mean, it was fine to be treated like a fresh-faced noob when this all started three years ago and the experience of academia as a “nontraditional student” was novel; I was so caught up in the adjustment to a full-time job/class/homework schedule that I had no perspective on anything. But to be older and wiser and sitting on achy hips in a plastic chair past my bedtime, dissecting yet another syllabus and engaging in childish icebreakers like, “Tell us what grade you want to get in this class”? 🙄

I at least tried to make this futile exercise interesting. “I’m going to say a ‘B,’ because I used to freak out about this stuff, and now, I’m trying to be more chill about everything.”

B’s, by the way, are the lowest you can go in this Master’s program and still pass, but to suggest that it’s OK to want that was apparently the wrong answer. My professor seemed taken aback, and quickly clarified: she wanted us all to be good little grade-grubbers gunning for A’s! My classmates complied, upping the absurdity ante as they went around the room: “I want an A-plus plus PLUS!” 🙄🙄🙄

The recovering perfectionist/all-or-nothing alcoholic in me wanted to scream, “WAKE UP, YE CITIZENS OF LA-LA LAND! YOU’RE BEING SOLD A LIE!”

Down here on Earth, we’re three months (a little less than 100 days) from commencement, where all of us — the spotless and so-so GPAs alike — will pick up the pricey piece of paper we need to rise above the intern ranks and land on the payroll somewhere in this “helping profession.” Then, we can begin paying our dues toward an LPC certification, which, after 2-3 more years, will finally signify legitimacy, and maybe allow us to placate the lenders who are already up our asses about the 35 or so thousand dollars we’ve amassed in student debt.

So, playtime is effectively over, and the alternate universe where folks give a fuck about our grades…well, if I’m being honest, I haven’t lived there since moving out of my parents’ house nearly a quarter century ago.

If I’m facing the facts, I haven’t needed the high marks or recognition or external validation I’ve been chasing all my life, consciously and unconsciously, in order to be an A-OK human being who’s worthy of taking up space on Earth. If I’m keeping it real, I haven’t needed to be the center of the universe to contribute something meaningful to the human race.

It took me decades to see that light. I think my “over it” attitude about grad school is a byproduct of finally, at 45, growing up. It’s a psychological shift that’s been a long time coming, and never would’ve happened if I hadn’t gotten sober. So, if today I seem like some unapologetic underachiever or champion of mediocrity, you have to understand the particular region of La-La Land from whence I came.

I was a tightly-wound, highly-sensitive firstborn child surrounded by adults who were raised in the 1940s/50s/60s, and as soon as I came into consciousness, I learned how to manipulate my environment to feel the safety, security and love I craved. I could soften the sharp edges of the world, ease the vise grip of anxiety and soothe the dull ache of depression by saying/doing things that pleased the grownups. I decided early on that demonstrating competence — or better yet, excellence — in areas my caregivers deemed important (academics, athletics) was the key to feeling any degree of comfort in my skin.

But, just like escaping/self-medicating with alcohol and drugs, or starving yourself to exert control over something in a chaotic and unpredictable world, this approach only works until it doesn’t. Out of the structured school environment, on your own in the real world, blind obedience to the Type-A, perfectionistic, all-or-nothing, fixed-mindset programming, which tells you it’s your job to be great at everything or you’re good for nothing, is ultimately unsustainable. It eventually reveals itself as the trap of self-centered self-importance and self-sabotage that it is.

The “lie” we’re sold as “good little girls” is that striving for perfection is a badge of honor or an ideal way for us all to live. In reality, I have found that it’s the surest way to stay anxious, stay depressed, stay addicted, stay sick, stay stuck.

Through my recovery from addictions and eating disorders, I came to realize I would never find the comfort or sense of fulfillment I sought until I accepted — or even embraced — the idea of “good enough.” I had to have the courage to be unabashedly ordinary, if I wanted to experience the extraordinary.

What does that mean to me? It’s feeling free to just show up, give life a try, and risk “failing,” making mistakes, looking silly or awkward or even like a total idiot, being judged or disliked by other people, giving bad answers or hitting wrong notes.

It’s striking a balance between the never-ending pursuit of growth, change, and improvement, and accepting what is — as it is — without always yearning for it to be different. It’s showing compassion for the flawed humanity that makes me just like everyone else, instead of trying to beat myself into the submission of an unattainable ideal.

It’s finding peace in the knowledge that whatever discomfort or adversity I’m forced to sit in/push through at the moment, it’s only temporary. Everything passes, the good and the bad, and each day offers a new chance to taste a little bit of both, and to learn something useful along the way.

Each day offers the opportunity to be useful to others. Particularly if you’ve decided to work as a therapist — which, by the way, absolutely requires embracing mediocrity, because there is no perfect way to be present for others. There are no definitive answers to life’s big questions. No matter how “good” you are at your job, how many degrees you have on the wall or letters after your name, you still can’t “save” or “fix” another person.

Oh, and there are no A+++ grades for anything. Ever. In case you didn’t know.

My new line of work is reinforcing that it’s the attempt and the approach — earnest, authentic, empathetic, hopeful — and not the outcome that really counts.

Of course, AA also promotes the idea that “acceptance is the answer,” and we succeed by surrendering, and “serenity” means getting back in control of our own lives by giving up trying to control everything.

My therapist channeled that vibe in our support group meeting last week, challenging each of the women in attendance to come up with a daily affirmation that reflects what we want to believe about ourselves. Mine is “I am fine,” a beautifully banal statement that lives smack dab in between the illusion of perfection and the despair of “never enough.”

Yeah, it’s also something people say when they’re upset and passive-aggressively trying to avoid acknowledging/expressing their true feelings. We pretend to be in balance and OK with everything, but really living in the middle ground is uncomfortable and hard. We’re conditioned to think “fine” is a stop on the way to somewhere better, a few steps up from “total shit.”

But “fine” is where most of life happens. We never experience it because we’re wishing for things to be some other way. We’re always waiting for conditions to improve, believing we must earn the right to feel good.

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“I’ll be happy when…” I used to think that every time I looked in the mirror. No matter how thin, lean or ripped I made my body (see below, bottom two photos), it was never, “I am fine.” It was “I am too much this” or “not enough that.”

I would buy clothes and never wear them out of the house, believing I needed to slim down or tighten up to “get away with” showing my body…or showing up at all.

Who has the time and energy for that? Who has the budget?

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So, here’s my chance to cut that shit out. To wear the damn blue two-piece, even if it’s a little more snug, and my abs are a lot more soft.

“Six packs never made me happy,” could be the tagline of my pre-2019 life. But because I have dedicated myself to the work of recovery, I can realistically choose to “be happy now.”

My husband’s company is sending him to Hawaii in a few weeks for their annual top employees’ retreat, and he’s inviting me to put school and work on the back burner and embrace the ordinariness of my 45-year-old, extremely pale, perimenopausal body at an oceanfront resort on the North Shore of Oahu for five days.

This body is another byproduct of growing up, of balancing out, freeing my mind from old conditioning and dysfunctional dependencies, learning to accept what is from moment to regular, everyday, mediocre moment, and letting that be enough. In other words, “trying to be more chill about everything.”

I decided I’m going to Hawaii, even though the trip will force me to miss class — along with participation points and a graded assignment I won’t be able to make up.

I might actually end up getting a ‘B’ in there and screwing up my 4.0, after all. Oh well! That’s (*grits teeth*) just fine! 😬