Self Improvement Junkie

It’s time for me to come clean: I am an addict.

My name is Amber, and I am a self improvement-aholic.

I have spent my life looking for the ultimate high: perfection.

I used to blame my insatiable desire for self improvement on the church, claiming that the teachings I got there had created my problem. But now I see that my Christian upbringing was simply the perfect breeding ground for my addiction, like placing a petrie dish in a humidifier. I carry the self-improvement gene; it was bound to happen.

Until recently, I had no idea that perfection was what I was looking for. I did not know that I was seeking a sort of Garden of Eden-like existence where there things like anxiety, shame, fear, self doubt and loneliness do not exist. I called it “trying to be more like Jesus,” or “seeking out the face of God,” or “giving my life to the Lord,” or some other similar phrase.

The church services I attended and the summer camps that I went to and the Bible studies I participated in all promised me that my life would look and feel better if I was closer to Jesus, and so I waged war against my sin, against my flesh, against the parts of me that put me at a distance from God. Daily I flogged myself with shame and loathing for the evil that dwelled within me and that kept me from experiencing the communion that I so longed for.

I approached my life with a certain ferocity, a warlike posture talked about in the songs of my youth. “I am in the Lord’s Army…I am in the Lord’s Army…” I wasn’t going to be one of the lukewarm Christians that God spits out of his mouth; I was going to be a warrior for Christ, an ambassador for the Lord, a servant of God.

I worked very hard at this, avidly studying the Bible and seeking out the wisdom in it; I went to Bible studies and joined accountability groups. I journaled and prayed and wrote and read. I read and I read and I read. I read every book by every inspirational Christian writer out there from Max Lucado to Beth Moore to Joni Eareckson Tada. I’m not even sure where I got the idea that Beth Moore knew how to get us back to the Garden of Eden, but I was convinced that if I read her book, I would get the missing key that would make me, well…, perfect.

To my endless frustration I could never make the euphoria I experienced outside of chapel worship services or during the decision night at summer camp last longer than a day or two, and so I assumed that I was inadequately following God’s Word. I wasn’t praying enough, or I was caring more about the favor of man over the favor of the Lord, or I was living outside of the will of God. Maybe it was because I wasn’t tithing enough. Or it could be because I wasn’t witnessing to my neighbors. It must be that I’m not witnessing to my neighbors. What was wrong with me that I didn’t want to witness to my neighbors? I should pick up a book on that.

So I bought more books. I went to more Bible studies. I went to the prayer closet at my school and prayed that my heart would change, that I would want to witness to my neighbor, and that I would not want to get naked with my boyfriend. I prayed that I would be more on fire, like that guy in my physics class who grew up as a missionary in Bolivia and regularly casts out demons in villagers at home.

But I never became like him, and I did get naked with my boyfriend, and I continued to beat myself up for it. Until one day when I just got tired of it all. It was all so exhausting, and I couldn’t EVER get the human out of me. The chaplain at my university pulled me aside one day and told me to just let it all go, to stop trying to figure it all out, and to just enjoy life. He suggested I get out of my head, which he likened to a bad neighborhood where one shouldn’t go alone, and that I put all of my Christian inspiration books away. He absolutely banned me from doing any more research on how the Bible was canonized and he told me pick up novels instead. Harry Potter, to be exact.

And so I did. I listened to music and sang karaoke. I met my best friend and went on road trips with her. I read Barbara Kingsolver books and Anne Lammott. I played with emotionally disturbed children and loved them with all of my heart. I decorated my home in shades of green, and took up photography. I stopped journaling and just went to sleep at the end of the day.

What I found was that this abstinence from self-improvement actually suited me! I was happy to let go of the pressure to be perfect and to allow myself to say, “I’m not sure.” It quieted the spiritual track coach in my head that had always been there, yelling things at me like, “Get down and give me 30 prayers, Rice! You’re lagging!” And interestingly enough, I actually became closer to God. God became more of a friend than something to figure out. We had a relationship that was loving and kind and intimate, rather than abusive and terrorizing.

I might have stayed in this place for a long time except that the self improvement junkie in me roared its ugly head once again. It was a gradual demise, one that was brought on by a miserable relationship and other life choices that really weren’t serving me. My unhappiness led me to the self-help sections of Barnes and Noble like a drunk to a bar, and before you could say “Ram Dass” I had filled up my bookshelves with new authors: Gary Zukav, Wayne Dyer, Joan Borysenko.

I fell off the wagon. I went to therapists and meditation centers and purchased The Secret and What the Bleep do We Know. Like any addict, my problem affected everyone around me; I dragged my ex to relationship seminars and weekend retreats, forced people to talk deeply and openly when they just wanted to chat, bought them workbooks to help them unblock their chakras and release limiting beliefs. I went through four years of intense, graduate level schooling in Spiritual Psychology and Counseling Psychology and gathered a whole new arsenal of self-improvement weapons: self counselings, projection work, inner child work, free form writing, ideal scenes…
I was a junkie once again, analyzing every one of my behaviors, every layer of my consciousness, every aspect of my relationships in order to figure out what I was doing or not doing that was creating the less-than-Nirvana-existence I thought I should be experiencing. I dialogued with my inner child, created vision boards, feng shui’ed my house, and made a meditation corner in my bedroom. I visualized myself thinner, less anxious, making more money, not wanting to strangle my child in the middle of the night, and when these things didn’t happen I assumed that I was the problem. I wasn’t visualizing it with enough feeling, or maybe I had the wrong color in the wealth and prosperity corner of my bagua. It could be that I wasn’t meditating long enough. It must be that I’m not meditating long enough. How come I don’t want to meditate longer?

My junkie friends didn’t help. They would offer me books, tantalize me with emails about the new Indigo-Child parenting workshops, invite me to peace meditations and labyrinth walks. They would explore the issue with me: “Have you done a self counseling on this? What might be the projection here, Amber? Have you created an ideal scene of what it is you really want?”

So, as you can see, I have to let Christianity off the hook. It’s not its fault, although you won’t see me at any church potlucks any time soon. I’m just a sucker for this notion that there’s a way, some way, to rid myself (and the world) of all of the stuff that is between me and perfection, the stuff about me (and others) that I have labeled bad and wrong, the stuff that I keep blaming for my (and others) unhappiness. Maybe the Buddha was right: “Life is suffering.” Maybe Jesus was right: “In this life there will be sorrow…” Maybe Rhonda Byrnes is right: “Everything in your life is your fault because you suck” – okay, maybe I’m paraphrasing a little.

The point is that I’m tired. For now, I’m quitting self-improving, cold turkey. No more book stores, no more graduate degrees, no more dharma centers. I’m going to pick up the new Harry Potter book, go to Sea World a lot, and watch a lot of bad reality TV without assessing what it is about me that needs the validation of watching really pretty people be completely vacant and idiotic. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll develop a relationship with myself that is more loving and kind and intimate, rather than abusive and terrorizing.