I have this impossible desire to be perfect in every way, shape and form. Whether it’s what outfit I’m wearing, what I’m working on or how I keep things organized, everything has to be just so. When you’re this way, people will call you anal, or OCD without recognizing what OCD actually means, but no, perfection is different. I am not a perfectionist because of a disorder or because something irks me and has to be a certain way. I’m a perfectionist because I know I wasn’t perfect enough. If I’d been the perfect daughter, straight and neurotypical and had gone to college and married a man and gotten a regular job and had a couple of kids, my parents might be pleased with me. But I am not those things. I am mentally challenged. I cry when lights are too bright. I shudder when I touch the wrong textures. I like girls. I failed school. I am as far from the perfect daughter as one can possibly be, and that’s what makes me strive for perfection.
I need to be perfect because I wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t even good enough, let alone perfect. I’m still chasing the idea of pleasing people who abused me and told me to die. That’s how big a pass society gives to parents. “Who cares if they said those things or beat you with a pillowcase full of dried minnows? They’re your parents!”. You apparently need to love them, just because they so happened to get pregnant with you, even if they didn’t want you, and give birth to you. I chase perfectionism. I work on something until it’s just right (up to and including these blog posts). The wording must be precise. The artwork must be immaculate. My outfit has to match. My hair has to fluff a certain way. Things need to be organized in the way they should be, all corners neatly aligned and meeting up. Everything has to be. just. so.
And why? All because everyone my entire life has told me I’m not. Has told me I’m a failure and that I should try harder or just give up. I need to be perfect. I’m a perfectionist workaholic, so that can’t possibly go wrong in my life. But in all seriousness, what makes it worse is recognizing that perfection is unattainable, so I get as close to perfect as I think can be, and that makes accomplishing things a bit more bearable, possible and attainable, despite knowing perfection isn’t a real, achievable goal. That’s slightly sick. But I need it. I need to be perfect. I have to be perfect.
Because I can’t be anything else.
Everyone else has made sure of that.