"Perfectly Perfect"

Perfectly Perfect.

I have always aspired to be something, to be famous and well liked.  I want to impress people and travel.  I want to prove to the world I am not a loser.  My main drive in life has been acceptance, approval.  I think secretly I am always trying to make my mother proud.  Even though I hate her, I just want her to finally say that I did a good job.  She has always criticized everything I have done.  Sometimes she would say something positive, but then throw a little jab in with it.  I hated that.  A while ago I painted a big painting of a black sillouetted tree branch, winding against a lightly brushed rust background.  It looked like a windy fall evening, it was simple and calming.  My mother came over and all she had to say with a look of dissappointment was, “That’s it?  It’s kind of boring…”  That really hurt.  I thought it was different from my usual detailed and realistic paintings.  It was fresh and uncomplicated.  Funny thing is, it has bothered me since then, staring at me from over the couch, sneering at me, repeating what my mother said.  So a month ago, I painted it again.  I added colors and swirls, emphasizing the feeling of motion and wind.  To be honest, It looks better.

Part of me wonders if she was right.  Who knows.  I would say that her constant disappointment and criticsim has pushed me to become a perfectionist.  I am never satisfied, it’s never good enough.  She’s always sitting on my shoulder analyzing and disapproving of what I am doing.  Everything is wrong, every choice I make is not what she wants.  It is a major downfall for me.  I wish I could leave things be, stop obsessing over small details and minor flaws.  Sometimes my perfectionism comes in handy, but usually it is just a hinderence.  The worst side effect of being a perfectionist is low self esteem.  You are never as good as the next guy, never as pretty as the girl that just walked by, never as smart as your coworker, never good enough for your spouse. 

Every day I look at myself in the mirror and feel resentment and anger.  Why can’t I look like the girls in the magazines?  Why can’t I just control my eating habits?  Why don’t I have the motivation of the girl jogging in the rain?  Why can’t I have been born with different features?  I stand there and pick apart every unsatisfactory feature, sucking in, pulling back, and posing so that I look different.  It is really sad.  I used to cover my mirrors with paper because I would spend hours there despising myself.  Sometimes I would get so angry that I would throw things or cry.  I work very hard to look the way that I do.  If you saw pictures of me when I was 18, you would never recognize me.  Throughout my younger years, I was never seen as atttractive or desirable.  Kids would actually tease me and beat me up for being so dorky.  They would shout out insults, calling me Alicia “Dykeson” or make fun of me for looking like a little boy.  I never had friends and always envied the pretty and popular girls.  I went through a phase where I had a F it all attitude and I refused to shower or wear nice clothes.  I would pose as a grunge or a goth, to push people a way, to defy all conformity.  Eventually, I just wanted to have people like me, I wanted to fit in.  I figured if I couldn’t beat them, I would join them.

I made it my lifelong goal to be the prettiest, most desireable girl in the room…  I started tanning and dying my hair.  I wore makeup and put on tight fitting clothes.  I got a couple of tattoos, a couple peircings.  I studied magazines and copied what was “in” what was considered sexy.  I have made a major transformation.  I went from this wimpy, pale skinned, freckled, blonde haired dork with a bowl cut, to a curvy, dark haired, sex pot…  Guys who would never talk to me would now be nervously trying to flirt with me.  I got jobs, I got friends, and I got approval.  I was now becoming popular, people wanted to hang out with me, girls wanted to talk to me, and guys wanted to have sex with me… 

It all came with a price.

Those people never liked me when I was that frail looking dork.  thise guys never found me interesting when I was a nerdy bookworm.  I didn’t even like me when I was me.  I have now lost who I was.  I forgot what I was all about.  I forgot how to be genuine and vulnerable.  I forgot how to be me.  I look at myself now and wonder what has happend, where I became lost.  I wanted approval, but at what cost?  The cost of being just another conformist, another fake drone?  But I can’t change now.  It’s an addiction. Approval is a drug, and it’s my drug of choice.  Approval has driven my every action.  I never even do things for myself anymore unless someone is there to tell me good job.  Kind of silly huh? 

Perfectionism, oh how you have become a thorn in my side.

My family has taught me that life is about impressing people with your status and how you look.  They have taught me to be shallow and fake.  I didn’t grow up learning real values like the importance of being earnest or doing things to make yourself happy.  What’s funny is that no matter how selfish I can be, I always put my happiness last.  If I could just learn to let go of the reins a little and relax, maybe I could find true peace and the real meaning of a life worth living.