Bonnie Young: Damned by Perfection

from A Thoughtful Faith for the 21st Century

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This is the story of how my perfection almost damned me. That is, how my relentless quest for flawlessness undermined my happiness, my health, my orientation to the world, and my faith. It is a story, too, of a girl becoming a woman and in the process making room for grace.

I was barely twelve the first time I worked up the courage to see my bishop and confess. I’d learned that bishop-confessions were what you did when you committed particularly serious sins, but I never imagined that I would be the one in the bishop’s office. I was so overcome by guilt immediately following my mistake that I confessed to my parents, but their reassurances weren’t enough to quench the fire of condemnation that I felt so tortured by. (I’ll elaborate, but for now, just understand that I feel guilt in an unusual way.) When I asked them if I needed to confess to the bishop, they were a bit surprised and told me that I could confess if it would help me feel better. Now I understand that they didn’t think it was necessary for me to go, but they also must have felt discomfort at seeing their daughter in so much torment. I wanted to show God that I wanted to be good, and I desperately needed to know that he still accepted me. I needed someone who could tell me, with authority, that God forgave me and still loved me. I don’t remember how the conversation went, other than that I wept and was met with overwhelming love and compassion from my dear bishop. When I walked out of his office, an immense weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I felt so free.

I remember similar feelings of distress-then-relief when I was baptized. I suspect most children don’t worry much about their worthiness before being baptized, but I felt burdened by my childhood mistakes (what to my seven year-old brain felt like mortal sins), and I craved a fresh start. But at the same time, I worried that my wrongs made me unworthy to be baptized. If I didn’t tell the bishop every detail of every mistake, would my baptism count? Adding to the question of my prepubescent worthiness, there were other uncomfortable moments on my baptismal day – my mother made me wear a floral dress with shoulder pads that I really did not want to wear, I worried about my underpants showing through my white baptismal jumpsuit (my activity day leader told me that she had accidentally worn pink ones on her baptismal day), and I felt embarrassed that all of the messages during the service were directed at me. But the relief that I felt as I emerged from the water – that I was all the way clean and totally forgiven – was powerful enough that if I meditate today on that moment, I can feel it again. It felt delicious to have a divinely-sanctioned fresh start.

As I rode home from the service, my wet hair dampening the despised shoulder pads of my dress, I lay horizontally across the back seat of our Dodge Grand Caravan with my hands behind my head and gazed out the window into the night sky. With the same innocent logic that led me to believe that if I tried hard enough I could dig to China from my backyard, I thought to myself, “I am totally clean, and if I try hard enough I can probably stay that way.” I didn’t want to feel the dread I’d felt before my baptism again, and I was naively but sincerely committed to putting in the work necessary to avoid needing repentance.

I took my spiritual journey, including the decision to be baptized and to remain clean, very seriously. I took a lot of things seriously as a child. Many of my day-to-day activities were touched – and often interrupted – by my carefulness and worries. Neither I nor my family understood how to make sense of my anxieties. I have some names and a couple of diagnoses for it now (one of which is “scrupulosity,” a form of obsessive-compulsive disorder that is characterized by excessive fear of sin and reassurance-seeking rituals), but I remember it being called “a very sensitive spirit.” My scrupulosity expressed itself in many ways – sometimes through repeated safety rituals or asking my mother for reassurance, but most often in the form of confession. I confessed everything, even if I was unsure if I had actually made a mistake. For example, if I had set an open pen on someone’s floor, I confessed that I might have made a mark. I had an unusually low tolerance for dishonesty, uncertainty, and risk, and I felt guilt in a way that most of my peers and family couldn't relate to. I was much more careful than anyone else I knew and was much harder on myself than anyone ever was with me. The love and peace that the gospel could offer me were often replaced with guilt and fear about my standing before God.

Like most youngsters, my understanding of God as a child and adolescent was based on a transactional model of divine reward or retribution: I obey, he blesses. I disobey, he punishes. Although I held hope that God and Jesus loved me, my anxiety and developmental abilities made it difficult to emerge from my fear of doing something wrong and disappointing them. My perception of God’s nature and my relationship with him was also complicated by contradicting teachings about him. My parents taught me that he was gentle and loved me always, but the Bible talked about a jealous and rageful God. How could I make sense of a God who was a hen gathering chicks in some verses and a wielder of a terrible and swift sword in others? I was unsure of who was listening to my prayers. I feared how he felt about me, especially when I made mistakes, and was desperate to know I was enough in his eyes.

There were glimpses of transcendent love and light that burst through this transactional and fear-based God-view from time to time. My baptism, attending the temple, reading the scriptures, singing hymns, hearing the testimonies of my dear parents and trusted leaders – these were moments when I genuinely felt the Spirit and tasted God’s mercy. When I wasn’t worrying about my mistakes or experiencing disturbing intrusive thoughts, I felt happy when I attended church. My tight-knit ward family loved and supported me. But scrupulosity often lurked just beneath the surface, preying on my good desires and fanning the flames of uncertainty about my worthiness. The resulting unease propelled me to cling to the safety I was promised if I was exactly obedient.

My natural inclinations toward perfectionism found fertile soil to thrive within the programs and standards of the church.The need for reassurance that I was “enough” fueled my enthusiastic participation in my various classes. In many ways, my life held evidence that a simple transactional model of the divine order worked. I was following the rules, my home life was peaceful and stable, I attracted good friends with similar standards and goals, and together we avoided the consequences of mistakes that some of our peers struggled with. I attributed these successes – my happy, good life – to living the standards of the gospel with exactness. I could ignore the few times when the transactional model didn’t work because there were so many times when it did (“work” meaning I saw myself blessed in obvious, outward ways). But there came a time when I couldn’t ignore how poorly this model actually worked for me.

Anxiety and scrupulosity had been my regular companions during childhood and adolescence, but I had little awareness of them until they showed up in a way that made life hard to live. Before age 21, I could engage in my compulsions (confessing, reassurance-seeking, repeated checking) somewhat freely. And while these compulsions didn’t get rid of my anxiety, I could get by with the temporary relief they offered. Then I went on a mission to Chile, and things got really hard. In the missionary training center and in my first Chilean area, I experienced a deep darkness that surprised as much as it devastated me. It would be hard to imagine a young woman more excited about and dedicated to serving a mission than I was, and I certainly didn’t expect my mission to feel like this. I had known sadness before, but this was different. I had been discouraged, confused, lonely, and even hopeless. This was different. Never before had I gone to bed at night wishing that I didn’t have to wake up in the morning. Never before had I felt such dread and soul-crushing pain. Wasn’t my obedience and sacrifice supposed to bring me joy? It did not make sense that I was being punished for disobedience – I literally didn’t have any time to be disobedient, and I also didn’t want to believe in a God who would “teach me a lesson” in this way. As questions about God’s character began to surface, the transactional model of God that had sustained me during my earlier life began to crumble.

With time, the heaviest darkness lifted and I was able to experience manifestations of God’s light. Yet striking moments of confusion continued for the remainder of my mission and after. Despite my sincere commitment to obedience, I sometimes felt emptiness and doubt as I prayed. I felt ashamed of this and kept these experiences to myself; it wasn’t where I thought I would be spiritually at that stage of my life. I was obedient. I kept my covenants, I studied, I prayed, I served, I attended the temple, and I loved freely. Why did I feel so much uncertainty and despair when I was doing everything that I could to follow Christ? The added complexities of post-mission life, including my career and relationships, added more weight to my load of emotional and spiritual distress. I felt persistent fear that I would never be enough, and my response of “doing more” did little to help me find refuge and peace. Two years after my mission, I felt prompted to break off an engagement with a young man after previously feeling God’s encouragement to marry him. This dealt another harrowing blow to my understanding of and relationship with the dependable, transactional God I had imagined. My view of God and my role in his plan weren't holding up.

During this time, I also began diving deeper into questions about him that had pricked my heart as a youth, especially surrounding how God felt about women. I asked these questions because I yearned to know how he felt about me – just me – a woman without a husband or children. Even from an early age, I noticed how the church treated men and women differently. I think I could ignore the dissonance the differences caused because I had many opportunities that felt equal, or nearly equal, to those that my male counterparts had: I held important roles in ward and stake leadership as a youth, I served a mission, and I was even called to be an “asistenta” – a female assistant to the mission president for a stint. God was using me and my talents in meaningful ways to bless his children, and I felt that my voice and contributions were equal to the boys and men surrounding me. Then something changed.

Perhaps it was the effect of nearing a temple marriage and imagining myself in the role of wife and mother. In any case, the differences between women and men in the church began to pain me. I squirmed in discomfort as I attended the temple; I fumed inside as I listened to counsel given to wives and mothers over the pulpit; and I felt disoriented, even numb, as I discovered details about the church’s polygamous past and present. I wondered if I was as important as men in God’s plan. Would a man forever have authority over me? Even worse, would I be one of many women bound to one man eternally, unable to experience true reciprocated belonging and equality? I couldn’t imagine a loving God who would command his daughters – his precious daughters – to live polygamously. It felt sad and scary to imagine that God might not care about my feminine fears and anxieties. I searched and searched for a more comprehensive understanding of God’s character and how he felt about me.

In my sorrow and frustration, I promised him that I would stay near him and keep trying. I knew that I needed to be fed spiritually – I needed light and mercy and divine power to guide me. I also knew that focusing exclusively on the frustrations of my questions would not give me the nourishment I needed to feel connected to my true self and to heaven. I didn’t need to have the answers to all of my questions before I could connect with heaven. Yet as I struggled, I began to realize that trying to stay near to God as I had thus far – motivated by a to-do list and the promise of a reward when I did something right (a transaction) – wasn’t helping me feel closer to him.

A wise client once taught me that striving and desire are good, if built upon a foundation of acceptance and love, but can be counterproductive when built upon a foundation of fear, self-rejection, and shame. With time, I began to wake up to the emotional realities that most often motivated me, and I saw how much guilt drove – and spoiled – each potentially helpful thing I did. Ironically, my desire to do so many good things (and to do them perfectly) was actually taking me further from God. With these realizations, I felt that God was giving me permission to slow down and to be a little easier on myself.

As I practiced slowing down and extending myself grace, I began to notice how different it felt to have effort produced by love instead of by the fear of disappointing God. I experienced a shift – from thinking that God would love and bless me once I had proven myself to him through my own perfection, to knowing that he already loved and blessed me in all of my imperfection. I came to see that the pain of my experiences wasn’t a manifestation of his displeasure towards me, but was actually the result of the realities of mortality that helped me carve out space in my heart for him. I used to see instances of darkness and doubt as interrupting my faith journey. I see now that they propelled it, deepened it, and helped it be more personal and relevant.

In the process of untangling my scrupulosity from God’s character and relationship with me, I let go of a lot of what I had believed – and feared – about him before. This process was and continues to be deeply personal and difficult to describe. But in short, I’ve come to believe that God is a lot more like a hen than a wielder of deadly weapons – he’s much more nice, gentle, and merciful than I had previously assumed. Coming to believe that God is a divine pair – a Heavenly Father and Mother – has been central to this transformation; integrating the feminine divine into my personal theology has brought balance to my view of God. I can more easily believe that I am not just acceptable but adored and totally loved. I can imagine how she feels about me as I hold my own daughter, put bandaids on her knees, and encourage her to keep practicing.

As I grew to better understand the character of my heavenly parents, as well as the purpose of being mortal, I began to realize that the guilt and fear that I felt so frequently were not what they wanted me to feel. They were not godly feelings deriving from some “super morality.” They were pathological. This was revolutionary for me. I felt free, free to follow what was virtuous and lovely, and to use my agency in a way I hadn’t before. My heavenly parents wanted me to use it! There was no way for me to become like them without using it and falling short sometimes. They provided a savior for me as I became wounded along the way. Their enveloping love provided a secure base that gave me the courage to explore my world and my questions even further. Tethered to their love, I felt confident that my exploration would help me to become like them.

Thankfully, as I dove into searching for answers to my questions, my life overflowed with nurturing spaces to explore them. As I eased up on my self-judgment, I found a community with devout question-askers. My professors and mentors wept with me. My ecclesiastical leaders lovingly modeled that it was okay to not have all the answers. My friends didn’t judge me. My family listened with compassion. My understanding boyfriend – who became my husband — was open to and respectful of my thoughts and feelings. There are many who haven’t understood my questions and yearnings, and that’s okay. As my mom says, “the church needs all kinds.”

For many years I longed to find the answers to my questions in a book–in an archive, an essay, a lecture. I wanted the fiery pain in my heart to be quenched by some amazing insight or historical finding – something deeply wise that would satisfy my questions and ease my pain. And while I’ve found many amazing insights as I’ve studied, I’ve felt that the only thing that can go deep enough to reach the pain in my heart is God’s unending compassion and love. I remain planted in the restored gospel of Jesus Christ not because I know anything for certain or because I’ve received all the answers that I’ve yearned for, but because I have experienced light and love here. Although it may at times go dim, I believe that that light will grow brighter until the perfect day. Like Moses, I affirm that “I will not cease to call upon God, [for] I have other things to inquire of him: for his glory has been upon me.”

My heart has made more room for Jesus. It feels good to have him there. And from this calming place of grace, I find I can be clearer with myself about my faith and why I remain attached to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Here are a dozen reasons why:

I stay because I believe in the plan of salvation, and in heavenly parents who want to give everything they have to their children.

I stay because the Book of Mormon has taught me about Jesus and has spoken to my soul.

I stay because I believe that I am good, inherently good, and not a result of a mistake or of an original sin.

I stay because I’ve been nurtured in my questions.

I stay because there is space in the body of Christ for all of God’s children, and together I believe we can receive an ongoing restoration and build an expanding Zion.

I stay because in the gospel I find balance, tensions of equal and opposing forces. I can feel at peace while not agreeing with every interpretation or policy I encounter as our lives as a people unfold.

I stay because of the faith of my foremothers and forefathers, by which I have been nourished.

I stay because of the peace I have felt in the temple, in addition to the wrestle that the temple has been for me. There is beauty in the covenants I have made.

I stay because following Christ and contributing to a community like the Church makes my life better; in the restored gospel of Jesus Christ I find light.

I stay because I like the feeling of mystery, of being reminded that I don’t know everything and I don’t need to.

I stay because I love how faith feels, and "I will declare what he hath done for my soul."

I stay because of the promise of redemption. I need a Savior. I hunger for the growth and transformation he has promised–and I can’t do it alone.

I’m lying now under a tree gazing at the golden sky. My hands are behind my head, my ankles crossed, and my cup is running over. I’m not there yet; I still have scrupulous thoughts and occasional panic attacks. Sometimes I squirm and fume and wonder. But I’m also filled with the love of my heavenly parents and a savior. They comfort me and I feel safe in their care. I now understand that the process of growing into whomever I need to be will necessarily involve a lot more mistakes and imperfections than I used to imagine. They know that I cannot be perfect in this world and it’s guaranteed that I will need repentance many, many times. This is not a train wreck; it is organic spiritual growth within God’s tender embrace.

A Thoughtful Faith for the 21st Century is now available to order from Bookshop.org, Amazon, or anywhere you get your books!

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