My Story: The Birth of a Perfectionist

I was an incredibly sensitive child. To a fault. I was condemned to glasses and acne at a very early age, which was only a set up for the schoolyard bullies to have a field day. On top of that, my fashion sense was, well about as unconventional as my family, and so I was teased on many fronts, from a very early age. Because I was such a sensitive, tender child, this teasing absolutely shredded any amount of self-esteem that a child could have.

I also came from a teasing family, only it wasn't the same kind of malicious schoolyard teasing that I received during the day. But to my sensitive heart, all teasing equalled insults, and so I began to live in constant fear of being teased for my faults and shortcomings. Somehow, I determined that if I could just be perfect, get things right, all things, then no one would have reason to tease me. If I could just blend into the back wall so no one would notice me, then they wouldn't tease me. In theory, that might sound good, but no one can really live like that. There is no perfection this side of heaven, and a child cannot go unnoticed for too long at all.

But I worked at it nonetheless. I strived to be the perfect student, quiet and smart, loved by teachers for not causing problems and not requiring extra attention. Unfortunately, though, the teasing at school did not stop, as I was called every name under the sun by bullies who had their own issues.

Four-eyes! Zit-face! Nerd! Hey dork, why don't you wash your face every now and then! What the hell are you wearing, dork? You freak!

I wish I had been stronger. I wish I could have fought back. I wish that those names didn't level me to tears, every time. But I refused to cry in front of the bullies. I would not give that to them. So I would hold it in, push it down, and allow the words spoken over me to ruminate, simmer, like a crockpot of hatred and bitterness that would swirl around my heart and mind, taking up residence in any crag available. In my pursuit of perfectionism, I neglected proper use of my own emotions and boundaries, and tried to hold things together, right up until I would explode, every couple of months it seemed. What a mess.

I just read recently from a Beth Moore book that "perfectionism is insecurity in art form." Precisely. And that was the aim. And when those habits go unchecked as a child, when that becomes the form of coping and dealing as a child, growing into adulthood becomes very interesting. Truly, it's difficult to really grow when perfection is the aim.

And yet that was the path that I chose, for better and worse.