Recovering Perfectionist

Hi.  I'm Rhonda, and I'm a perfectionist.

I can't put my finger on the point when this started, but it's been a part of who I am for a very, very, very long time.

My perfectionism became a problem for me early on in life, because as a kid, I messed up.  A lot.  I would hide dirty dished under the couch, not clean my room when told, ignored my homework, was a bully to my friends, waited until the last minute to do projects.  Disgraceful.

It continued to plague me through high school and college, because as a student, I messed up.  A lot.  I fell short of goals, missed deadlines, said insensitive things to my friends, didn't do my chores.  Shameful.

I thought I had the problem conquered when I ended up in a great career that I was very good at.  But I kept messing up.  I yelled at students, let papers needing grading sit for days at a time,  half-assed lesson plans, let my teammates and colleagues down.  Despicable.

I held out hope that I would not be bothered with this problem as a wife and mother, but I messed up.  Every day.  Multiple times a day.  I yelled at my kids, neglected the laundry, was sarcastic to my husband, spent too much money, ignored the maintenance on the car.  Reprehensible.

I tried to hide my mistakes under a veneer of confidence and humor, and when that didn't work, I used distraction.  I figured if I could anticipate the needs of every person I ever came into contact with, and met those needs single-handedly, then they wouldn't see what I was so desperate to keep hidden.  Clearly the only thing worse than HAVING flaws was SHOWING them.  It seemed like a solid plan at the time!  All I had to do was be everything to everyone.  Sounds legit.

And for a while, I thought I was pulling it off!  I was convinced I had everyone fooled.  Many folks didn't see, and those who did loved me too much or were too polite to point out the obvious flaws in the veneer.  (You have to love the South: "That Rhonda... Bless her heart.")

But here's the problem with denying imperfections.  You get so used to lying to yourself about them, that it becomes easy to lie to yourself about other things too.  And you forget that the purpose in life is not to produce a beautiful, flawless work of art; it's to get messy and learn while doing it.  So you  don't learn.  Or you learn the wrong things.  And you don't grow.  Or you grow the kind of habits that are destructive.  And you get stuck.

I'm proud to say I'm not stuck anymore.  Or maybe I'm just not SO stuck, because I find that I'm frustrated that it is taking so long to figure all this stuff out.  Why haven't you cracked this code yet, Rhonda?  But then I remember that that frustration is just the sneaky voice of Perfectionism talking.  (She's a wily one, you have to admit.)

So when I find myself composing my next entry in my head, I have to stop myself.
When I find myself wondering what people who read this will think about it, I have to stop myself.
When I start to berate myself for not getting stuff done fast enough or elegantly enough, I have to stop myself.

This process is messy.  It's inelegant.  It's clumsy.  It's slow.  And so am I.

And I don't care who knows it!
Kind of.
Mostly.
More every day.

It's a process.

A slow one.

But I will get there.
Eventually.