Shame

The Imperfection of Recovery (Part 1)

I was a child perfectionist. Not your average version of perfection, but a card-carrying, practicing, CEO of childhood perfectionism. If I didn’t understand instructions given to me by my Hebrew teacher, I would have a meltdown. If my t-shirts were not hung up neatly on matching hangers in my closet, I would get anxious. If I didn’t finish everything on my to-do list, I would go into a shame spiral. It wasn’t classic . . .

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