Shot of Reign Rain

By Paula S. Robin

Give me a second while I climb back up to your perfection. I feel so small and insignificant on your shoulders. Another minute and I will reflect your pure greatness. Mr. Important, please, let me properly introduce you to yourself, Mr. Impotent. It’s all about the timing and a few letters. In another drink, I’ll live up to your standards. I meant blink. Slide over; your shadow is blocking the sun. You make all my absolutely necessary, lack its sense of urgency. Careful, careful, I’ll stick to the gum on the bottom of your shoe again. You don’t like me acting this small, how big of you? If you look closely, there is evidence of my bigness. Shine another light on me. We just have to stop pretending who we aren’t, don’t we? Don’t raise your wit to me. I’ll backhand those expectations into smithereens. Yes, your smallness, will you reign down, please rain down on me. Oh, please pile on some more of that sarcasm. You know, the one size fits all inferiority? There now, that coat of defectiveness fits like a glove. I need you to say that again. Only this time, use the tone. Not that tone. You know, “the” tone, the one you use when you don’t want to put the effort in. The tone you use to go out of your way to smite me. I do believe you were born to make me feel insecure. Don’t worry, baby, no one does it better. This is the part when I pump you up, so you can continue deflating me. I know it’s your favorite. Stop overreacting to the small stuff. When I was younger, before I turned 21, I was a minor irritant. Read that line again. You have always gotten angry over the small stuff. Where did I go? I’m hiding in the annoying predicaments of your mind, the deep crevices. Of course, I’m holding on to your jugular. Why wouldn’t I? We both know you are about to hype yourself up into an overreaction. When you let yourself go, that’s when real issues arise. No, no, no, you don’t get to feel inadequate. Get your hands off of me. I’m insufficient for your purpose. Let’s get these feelings straight.

From up here, I can see that you have some unrealistically high expectations set for me. The higher I climb, the harder the fall. Oh, is that a tear I see in your eye? How I love swimming in the pool of self-pity. Did the desire to be perfect not turn out quite the way you thought it would, precious little perfect? It’s not a wonder people can’t tolerate us. We wear this impossible state of perfection like a necktie noose. Don’t you even think about me being a mere thought of your imagination. How dare you. I will run through your mind, constantly reminding you of your shortcomings. Listen, in the background of your thoughts, our favorite song’s playing. “I don’t get no, satisfaction.” Don’t you think for a minute I won’t replay it a thousand times. Turn up the volume before it gets too crowded up here, I want to dance. Backlash this. We both know you compensate due to a sense of inadequacy. Oh, now who has an exaggerated sense of their shortcomings? You going to cry, baby? Look at that lip quiver.

You really thought you were beyond reproach? You are just so, so acutely sensitive to judgment these days. I think someone has elevated his or her opinion too high again. Put me down, little perfectionism. You’re such a mere illusion, aren’t you? You keep looking for what is broken. You can’t find what’s missing, so you focus on us. It’s hard being under this magnifying glass all the time. Don’t you think it makes me look fat? Are you trying to capture me again? No? Oh, you want to conquer me. Silly you, or is it silly I, we can’t conquer perfectionism. Why wasn’t my striving to be my best ever good enough? Hand me that tissue, the used one in your pocket, thank you. I’m not crying; I am sweating, steaming, like a pressure cooker. This pressure to be better and better never ends. I will always hold my own bar far too high. Give me another shot. Come sit beside me, you sexy little unhealthy habit, you. Join me. Let’s toast to the dark side of aiming too high.

What do you mean when you say, “according to your standards?” Don’t you walk away from me, you arrogant little bastard. We both know I can destroy you. I will burden you more than ever. “Bartender give us another bowl of excessively high personal standards, please? We can’t get enough of this stuff!” Swallow that mixed bowl of nuts. Salty, aren’t we? The truth is, you can’t handle our intense criticism. That’s right, you and I were born out of failure and suffering. What’s for breakfast? The voice of reason, please. Now that’s a tall order. What, you’d rather scrambled oppression with obsession today? At least I still have a voice. You have a problematic relationship with our sense of self. We need a personality transplant. Don’t you interrupt me, unless you want me to attack that self-esteem again. Boy, I will punch you in that pretty little mouth. Perfectionist, please, when you criticize, don’t you know you are giving and receiving? Chill. You better recognize that defensiveness. Take it down a notch. Don’t you draw any lines at insults. There are plenty more where those came from. We haven’t even looked at the big betrayal, self-betrayal, or self-neglect yet. All perfectly good contenders. Oh great, just great, now you’re sensitive to constructive criticism, isn’t that just par for the course? Who am I to talk to you this way? I’m internal dialogue, why of course! I’m here to plague you with self-doubt and a hint of criticism. Now you feel triggered, is the gun loaded? Is it blanks or bullets this time? This could have been a touching moment. Instead, you stand in front of your self-reflection, looking all flawed. Where is that knee-jerk reaction, boy, the one we have come to expect? You know, the demeaning and the devaluing of self.

Why is it dark? Of course, you’ve turned out the light so that when you shine that damn spotlight on me, we can focus our attention inward to be fully present and assertively engaging in our life. Let me climb right back up to your expectations and reality, dear. Oh, you want to play games, dodge ball, you say? Dodge this for the rest of your life, will you? Shame, guilt, sadness, anger, frustration, disappointment, and hopelessness – dodge them all. “Bartender, how about a frosty glass of isolation, for this one? Blend it, blend it well, with a sense of self-disgust, won’t you?”

I am here to represent the threat we impose on ourselves. Who is we? All your drummed up emotions and feelings and thoughts, of course. You know what you need, a swift kick and surge of feeling inadequate. Don’t say I didn’t warn you about the desire to be perfect. Don’t call me a little flaw. I’m afraid not. “A piece of rope walks into a bar, and the bartender says,” We don’t serve your kind.” The rope goes outside, ties himself in a knot, and frays one end of himself. He walks back into the bar, and the bartender says,” Weren’t you just in here?” The rope replies,” Nope, I’m a frayed knot.” It isn’t my joke. I cut and pasted it verbatim. I would give credit to the jokester who wrote it, but I don’t know who it was. Things were too tense. Perfectionists are always so intense. There is no endpoint, and it will destroy the quality of our life. Don’t start that again. Listen, perfectionism is felt by many to be a virtue, and I am not many. I’m afraid not, knot. The most disturbing part of you, perfectionism, is that you don’t respond to reason. Maybe it’s time to reprogram that tiny brain of yours again?

I absolutely hate the victim role. I refuse to play the part again. I’d rather play Peter Pan in tights. You decided, finally, that perfect isn’t attainable, and bam, victim again. Attention, please, quiet down self-critical voice before we lose ourselves again. Gotta love these mindless loops we are taking. Why can’t we stay on the path to intellectual reasoning? Instead, we delve into the depths of critical self-talk only to find a key. I am going to jump down from my pedal stool. Climb on my high horse. It’s tied up out front and overlooks this suppressing situation. Maybe I will throw a quarter or three into the jukebox first. Let’s let our conscious mind redirect our focus. Toes tapping, feet do the waltzing, to a new tune. Can I get a little beat, don’t worry, be happy. Here’s a little song I wrote, actually I didn’t. Well, now take a look at me, a positive vision for once – and honest, too. Let’s toast to positive thinking. Of course, I am drinking again. What do you mean, who drove me here? I drove myself home. You said to program our brain to positive alternatives. I am positive this is the best alternative to your ultimate demise. Clink, clink, clink goes the spoon on the beer mug. Here’s to perfectionism! You are the very essence of my personal demise. You thought I had high standards; think again. That was before the forty-four red solo cups. I am a relentless little self-indulger, bottoms up. Blinking won’t make me disappear. Stop thinking and start drinking before you sober up to “feel” again. You look good in that numb state. I think you are a few drinks and blinks behind. Alcohol will not solve all our problems, but you gotta admit it was worth a shot or three. Jump back on the barstool, you little stool pigeon. You, over here, you over there, pull yourself together, twine and twin. You might be seeing double; you can’t be double. Double trouble walked into a bar; damn, hurts more every time.

What was this all about, you ask? Didn’t you know? Well, it’s about the most important and impotent person I know, you and you. Now take a bow, perfectly positioned under your spotlight, center staged. Welcome home, all about me. This one is for you and you. Choose your poison carefully. You want me to choose between two unpleasant choices; wow, I thought you wanted me to pick our choice of alcoholic beverage. Poison, two horrible options. Reign down for the crown or rain down for the clown. The notion of getting to choose and have an option is different. Oh, you mean pick an addiction? Alcohol is a poison, of course, albeit it is socially acceptable. I’m a people pleaser, and I choose you. Pour me another glass of shits and giggles, please? I’ll be ten feet tall and bulletproof soon enough. As soon as I finish this, everything will be all perfect again. Cheers!