Why I Became a Perfectionist

When I was a child, in addition to loving spooky stories, I was terrible at everything. I’m not being      gratuitously self-deprecating here—I actually was. To convince you, here are some real –life examples:  

Reading and other intellectual pursuits: I really couldn’t read well until I was like seven. Also, I struggled with basic math principles. This always shocks people because I’m pretty darn literate/academically inclined today, but it was slow coming. Everyone always talks about certain children’s books that they loved, like Anne of Greene Gables, the Little House on the Prairie, ect. I hated all those books as a child and would have tantrums when people would try to get me to read them. Largely because I couldn’t really read. (But also because they sucked. I’m standing by that.) 

Competitive swimming: I decided to join the swim team at the Country Club (This sounds way more privilege-y that it really was.) because by best friend did it. Also all the cool kids did it, and I wanted to be cool. I could swim, yes, but was not anywhere near the caliber necessary for competitive swimming. I’m pretty sure I almost drowned during my first race, mostly because I was crying so hard. For some reason I remained on this swim team for years, and I never got much better. I was a frequent recipient of the slow clap*. 

Ballet: Holy Cow. I was/still am the worst dancer of all time. Why oh why did I take dance class from the ages of two to ten? That was eight solid years of self-esteem erosion. I was not flexible, and I had no rhythm and weak ankles. Also, I was like three feet taller than all the other girls my age, which seriously hindered my attempts to hide on stage. ALSO: My dance teachers were really mean to me and openly mocked and berated me in front of my cute, tiny, perfect classmates. ALSO: Because I was so huge, I looked ridiculous in costumes that could still pass as cute on smaller girls, like a faux-tuxedo leotard with will a bowler hat, a glitter ascot, and a skirt with pink polka dots. 

I could continue this list indefinitely, adding piano, cross stitching, musical theater, cheerleading, hand writing, drawing and so on and so forth, but suffice it to say that I was just pretty much terrible at everything. I remember thinking about how weird it was that I wasn’t at least average at at least one thing. I mean, it seemed statistically improbable, even. 

By fifth grade, I had gotten really really sick of being so bad at everything. I actually remember consciously deciding that I was going to be good, or least average, at something, whether I was naturally inclined to be or not. That was it. I’d had it.

First, I begged my dad to teach me how to play basketball. I knew that not many girls knew how to play basketball, so it wouldn’t be so hard to seem good in comparison. Also, at this point, I was still towering over my peers, so basketball seemed like a logical choice. So I worked really hard, and practiced every day in our driveway. Picture a training montage of eleven-year-old me, out in the driveway in all types of inclimate wheather, wearing something ridiculous like overalls, practing jump shots (Musical score: the Chariots of Fire song). I became a decent basketball player. Actually, I was the best player on YMCA girls’ league team. (We were the worst team in the league, but still!) 

Not being the worst at something was amazing. I really loved it, and I decided I wanted to be not the worst at more things. In junior high, I became obsessively committed to my school work, to the extent that I was ranked first in my class. This was the best. I was actually good at something! Or actually, I wasn’t, I was just working really hard, but I appeared to be good at something.

In high school, I quit basketball, but I started running and playing tennis. I worked really hard at both so I could be not the worst. In fact, I was eventually among the best on both my cross country and tennis teams. I knew I couldn’t stop working really hard, because my not-the-worst-itude was an illusion that I maintained through shear will power and dedication. 

By the end of high school, my perfectionism was out of control. I was valedictorian. I was captain of the cross country team and second seed on the tennis team. I won a big, prestigious college scholarship. And when I got to college, I couldn’t stop racking up the accomplishments. I was defining myself by my ability to achieve, and it was exhausting. But I couldn’t stop! Because I didn’t want the slow clap!

In my mind, there was no in-between. It was either A or F; I was either awesome of shitty. My perfectionism was psychologically unhealthy, and I knew that I would need to take steps to stop it. Which I will discuss in my next post, because this one is already far too long.  I plan to title it “The Struggles of a Recovering Perfectionist.” Stay tuned, Morgan and Hanna (who I assume are the only people who could be potentially be reading this.)

*For those of you unfamiliar with this term: Often, in racing sports like swimming, track, and cross country, the spectators erupt into spontaneous, slow, rhythmic applause for the competitor who finishes last in a race. Especially if the race is long, and especially if the competitor is obviously struggling. It’s a pity thing, and it’s humiliating. If you are guilty of the slow clap, please stop.