Closer to Fine

Last spring, I dropped out of graduate school, a decision of vast pride. Usually dropping out and pride live in different sentences, so allow me to add some context. For years, I believed worth to be synonymous with faultlessness, the two inextricably bound. Mormonism had taught me that my preeminent purpose on earth was to be like Jesus, a heavenly being beyond “sin”. Conveniently, the Mormon church offered a step-by-step plan on following Jesus, including what constituted sin. Conveying the message that truth emanates from external authorities, not within, while narrowing the boundless wonder and possibility of childhood faith into dogmatic doctrine. One capital T-truth to rule them all. As a sensitive, anxious child believing my self-worth hinged on faithfulness created a distress fueled spiritual diligence. I desperately craved love. If love came with the conditions of obedience and remorseful repentance, as an innately obstinate child I would become an expert on shame. 

In spite of the indoctrination, my intuition stubbornly resisted. I rebelled against Mormon teachings that God only sanctifies heterosexual marriages, that unwedded sex is a sin akin to murder, that a woman’s primary calling is homemaker, that God pettily cares whether you drink coffee or soda. I realized LDS prophets, all white men, lied about their supreme access to God by reading their supposed revelations littered with racism, homophobia, and misogyny. At only 15, and without their holy priesthood, I rooted my spirituality in empathy, grace, and love. A divine force unrestrained by human comprehension, let alone human bigotry. When I spoke about my doubts and beliefs, the adults around me swiftly rejected them. The intuition they once celebrated as the spirit, they now called the natural man, or worse, the temptation of the devil. Whatever these doubts were, they were unholy and untrue. I was confused, mistaken, and wrong. If I reread my scriptures, followed the prophet, obeyed the doctrine, earnestly prayed, I would know the church’s truth. So I did. Begging God for confirmation of anything besides what I already knew: I could never stay without abandoning myself. The only choice was to leave.

Mistakenly, I assumed by leaving Mormonism I left Mormonism behind. Subconsciously, however, I still subscribed to the frameworks it taught. I sought a capital T-truth to replace the one I left behind, and regarded my own intuition with suspicion. After all, listening to my intuition led to years of isolating rejection. Trauma has repercussions, and mine fed into dysfunctional coping mechanisms with the distinct flavor of Mormonism. I thought if I became what people wanted, flawlessly anticipating their needs, no one would reject me again. Of course this proved untrue, but with every rejection I amplified my efforts. I could be perfect if… I lost twenty pounds. I didn’t listen to Taylor Swift. I wore trendier vintage clothes. I earned straight A’s. I repressed any anger or sadness. I bleached my hair blonde. I worked with kids. I worked with troubled kids. I wrote well. I pleased men. I became a therapist. I discovered the truest truths. I could be loved if… I became a superhuman beyond failure. Sound familiar? In this hamster wheel of perfectionism and people pleasing, I silenced my inner voice looking to anyone or anything else to tell me who to be. Again and again, I ended up miserable and hating myself. 

To condense years of healing into a paragraph is to enact violence towards the experience. So may as well lean in and butcher my growth into reductive statistics: seven years of familial growth, six Brené Brown books read, five years of therapy, four different therapists, three years of yoga teacher training, two proposals (please don’t ask), one and a half degrees in the mental health profession, and one husband. My beautiful Seth, who gifted me unconditional love. No need to perform or pretend with him. He knew the parts of myself I labeled shameful, and loved me unwaveringly. It's corny, I know, and it's true. The safety of our attachment, the safety of our marriage, our home, allowed me to heal my trauma. Ten thousand Hallmark cards could not approximate my gratitude for our relationship. Corniness be damned.

That brings us to Spring 2023, the second semester of my Master of Social Work at Utah Valley University, and I am in the middle of a breakdown. That pesky inner voice I muzzled found a way to make its message heard; I stopped sleeping. This had happened before, when I stayed in terrible jobs or relationships too long. As the saying goes, “The body keeps the score” and my body was ringing the buzzer, loudly. I interpreted this as my inability to stick it out, a lack of resiliency, a symptom of anxiety, an imperfection. In reality, I had been miserable for months. I disliked the program’s prescriptive material. The hours were untenable and inhumane. Most pressing, therapy did not feel how I imagined. For me, it leaned more towards emotional exhaustion than fulfillment. I despised the clinical and codified aspects. I longed for freer, creative pursuits. Yet my parents, professors, fellow students, even my therapist (3rd of 4) told me I should stay. It was the sensible, safe, ambitious choice. By all the usual monikers, the right choice. Seth, on the other hand, told me, “There is no right or wrong choice. There are only choices”. 

Mirroring myself ten years prior, I left, but this time with a decade of hard earned wisdom. A decade of growth encapsulated in a singular choice. In the iconic “Closer to Fine” the Indigo Girls sing, “I'm trying to tell you something 'bout my life. Maybe give me insight between black and white. And the best thing you ever done for me, is to help me take my life less seriously. It's only life after all. (…) There's more than one answer to these questions pointing me in a crooked line and the less I seek my source for some definitive the closer I am to fine.” I am trying to say there is no such thing as perfection, no right way to live, no capital T-truth, no external authority, no scoreboard, no definitives. In the end, there are only choices. When we abandon absolutes, life opens up to the freedom of possibility. I dropped out of grad-school because I wanted to and this is only my life after all.