THE IMPERFECTION THAT IS PERFECTIONISM
When perfectionism became all I was, my life consisted of one imperfect storm after another. Perfectionism isn't about being a neat freak or an A+ student. Perfectionism is about a deep-rooted fear of not being good enough, thereby holding yourself to impossibly high standards to prove your abilities. There are various scenarios that breed perfectionism but some common ones include children at the hand of abusive parents, generations who are influenced by a heavy presence of social media, and athletes competing in elite sports.
Finding imperfections in your appearance doesn't have to tie into perfectionism. I believe that it's human nature to compare ourselves to those around us. Social media infiltrates its users with thousands of different people every minute, often consisting of photos where physical appearance has been edited or is depicted in a posed unnatural state. When I began finding imperfections in my appearance at the hands of social media, I was concerned with how I looked to a degree that was dangerous. And once I'd become very ill, this degree of danger became equal amidst my real-life comparisons, especially throughout eating disorder facilities that were comprised of many others receiving treatment. I couldn't tell you exactly when I lost myself but I did. I stopped living for moments and experiences and I began living for the facade that was the face and body the world saw me through. I think that many people label this process as arrogant, entitled and self-indulgent but the truth is, those who feel that they need to look a certain way to prove themselves as 'important' or 'enough' are deeply insecure and most likely loathe their existence more than anybody else around them. I didn't wake up and define the day as beautiful based on the sun that shone, I defined whether or not my day would be meaningful based on the numbers that I saw that morning on the scales. I stopped viewing events as opportunities to be present with those I loved and viewed them as obstacles... terrifying obstacles with food as the perpetrator and inconvenience to the plans anorexia had on its horizon. I stopped breathing because I wanted to and started breathing because I had to... I had to if I wanted to win the game that would allow me to see the portrait of myself that I could sign off on as looking 'perfect'. Although I do not know when it is that I lost myself, I know that in the process, I lost my worth, my spark, my me. Losing yourself is agonising but mostly, it's numbing. You can't feel joy, you can't feel love and you can't feel hope.
Mostly you can't feel anything and if you do it's not much at all.
OCD's brutality is written in the name, stating the compulsion its sufferers feel to perform to an obsessional degree otherwise known as a perfect degree. There is a list of activities that I must adhere to, things that I feel I 'have' to do. Performing activities in the 'perfect' way - the way OCD outlines that I must execute makes me feel like a slave, stuck between recognising the abnormality in my actions, yet knowing I have no other choice. I hate doing most of the activities on my list. I can identify the irrationality engrained in some of my actions, yet I can't stop myself from carrying them out. One of my compulsions is cleaning cutlery, convincing myself that it's been contaminated in one way or another, even after I've repetitively rinsed it and put it through the dishwasher sometimes up to three or more times. In my efforts to make my cutlery perfect, all of my choices and emotions fall imperfectly out of place, arising in anger at my inability to resist these compulsions, my sadness that I'm not strong enough to override them and my fear of who I've become. Whilst I find satisfaction after the fact of achieving what I deemed as perfection, when I take a step back, I see myself playing the character of a girl, living in an imperfect life that she can't begin to recognise. This is just one example where OCD exists in and rules my life. There are at least three more. Perfection, Dolls, is far from beautiful... My perfection is your hell.
One of my most painful experiences is an experience that was over before I'd realised what had happened. It's an experience that I've reflected over immensely. I used to be the only one who knew what it was like to be me. And mostly, I liked the girl I knew. It wasn't in an overbearing, arrogant manner. My confidence level was like Goldilocks' little bowl of porridge... not too much, not too little, but 'just right'. Over time, there were too many times that I was faced with choosing between the person I believed myself to be and the person who was the catalyst of a problem. There was somebody that I used to know and like anybody who we love, I cared about their perception of me. And it seemed as though one day, I woke up and suddenly, we didn't see the best in each other, but in fact, we brought out the worst in each other. What was founded on love became founded on an eggshell, cracking at the edges initially and finally, cracking monumentally at the yolk until we were bleeding and breathing and speaking orange and yellow. Somebody that I used to know turned my statements into questions so many times that in the end, I didn't have any statements left. Nothing about myself was matter-of-fact.
'I am kind' became 'Are you as evil as the way he looks at you suggests you are?'
'I am brave' became 'Are you as silly as your foundationless remarks?'
'I am beautiful' became 'Can you become as small as is your worth?'
My perception of myself had completely changed and those who truly loved me expected the girl they'd always known to show up. But I was different, bruised, stained. As my Mum says, she was left to pick up all of the broken pieces I'd become and piece them together again. I was not only confused with the person I'd become, but I wasn't sure if this new version of myself could exist in the friendship and family circles I used to feel like I belonged in. I overthought and over analysed, trying to be the perfect friend and the perfect daughter. As a result, I lost my place in many friendships and in many family circles. Chasing perfect resulted in a new, imperfect world.
It was cruelly ironic and it was bitterly heartbreaking.
Who was I if I wasn't myself? A confession, Dolls? I'm still not too sure.
Doll's, perfectionism is misunderstood. Perfectionism is one of my greatest demons and I hope that in shedding a spotlight on something so sinister, I am able to touch the heart, soul and mind of somebody who feels as hopeless as I often feel being a slave to my own perception of a perfect me living in my perfect world. I promise that you are not alone and that even in the midst of perfectionism, there are little glimpses of light that you'll find if you just hold on, to one more minute of one more day.
Kisses,
COS x
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