A Perfectionist’s Guide to Letting Sh*t Go
I’ve always been a perfectionist. And not in the cute, “my biggest flaw is that I’m such a perfectionist” sort of way, the way you frame it in a job interview. In an ugly, torturing way. The way that makes you hate yourself more and more for every mistake you make.
To me, my perfectionism is an actual negative trait, because if something isn’t the way I imagined, the way it’s “supposed” to be, I feel I can’t be happy with it at all. I’ve felt this way about things as trivial as my hair or outfit, to existential ideas, like my purpose in life, my achievements and my impact on the world. From relationships to apartments, I’ve expected perfection from it all, whether within my control or not — otherwise it’s a waste of time.
Most of the time, the onset of this feeling is triggered by thoughts pertaining to my career. Upon entering the working world, I quickly became disillusioned with the path I had chosen. Who would think what I do is impressive? I’m not making enough money. I’m not making a difference in the world. I don’t feel fulfilled. Am I doing something that people would hear and say, “oh, you must be so smart”?
I have often felt, and still feel, that I haven’t lived up to my potential. I haven’t achieved nearly as much as I should have by now, as much as everyone expected me to achieve.
My worst fear has always been being average, and each day I let pass without making any changes just cemented that fate for me further. I felt I was wasting so much of my life because I chose the wrong path the first time.
Slowly, I’ve come to realize that just because what I’m doing isn’t my dream job, or what I’m “meant” to do, doesn’t mean it isn’t meaningful. It taught me something, even if I don’t see the value in that at the time.
Not only is it something that I’m genuinely interested in and wanted to try, but the skills I’ve honed in my short career are easily transferable to so many other lines of work.
I needed to learn that imperfect situations are not a waste of time.
I still need to learn that.
My life is nothing like I imagined it would be five years ago. Five years ago, I didn’t know what I wanted. I felt pulled in seven directions and I asked myself: how could I do something perfectly if I wasn’t all in? (Really, what I should have asked myself is how can anyone do anything perfectly?)
I have to come to terms with the fact that I’m not on the path I once dreamed of for myself. In fact, I don’t think I’m on any path at all. I couldn’t choose a direction when I saw a fork in the road — I wanted to walk down five different paths. So somehow I ended up in the ditch on the other side of the guardrail; at least, that’s what it felt like.
I haven’t lived up to my own expectations and that’s okay, because I have done plenty of other things I never would have expected myself to be able to do.
The biggest reason I hate being a perfectionist is the constant regret — that blood-boiling, stomach-turning feeling when you realize you didn’t even come close to actualizing the life you once dreamt for yourself. That gnawing feeling that comes late, late at night when you’re staring at the ceiling, wondering which choices led you here. The realization that you don’t even know where to start clawing yourself out of the hole you think you’re in.
I regret not studying hard enough, I regret those lazy days when I could have written something, I regret choosing the “wrong” classes, the “wrong” major, the “wrong” job, the “wrong” life. I regret not following my dreams when I could have, when I had the means and opportunity and motivation to do so.
I regret thinking more about the present than the future, thinking that good enough was good enough, because now it’s not good enough for present me. I regret letting depression get the better of me, staying in bed and not realizing that precious time and opportunities were slipping away from me.
But it’s too late to worry about my college major or GPA, or my first full-time job, or the tiny shoebox apartment I signed a one-year lease for. I can’t change anything now.
The expectations I set for myself definitely far outweigh others’ expectations of me. The only person who really pushed me that hard was my mother, probably because she thought I was capable of anything. I’d like to think I’m capable of extraordinary things, but I have yet to prove that to myself. I’m afraid that even if I try my hardest, I won’t live up to these expectations, so it’s safer to keep them as dreams.
As many times as I’ve wished for a time machine to go back and make better decisions, tweak my life here and there, I know that even if I could, I would never be satisfied. My only option is to move forward from here. I can only look ahead. I can only choose to be kind to myself now, and forgive myself for any “mistakes” I may have made.
In the future, I hope to get to the place where I don’t see them as mistakes, or even detours or setbacks. I’d like to think of them as little side quests, adventures, learning experiences. I’ve always known I’m far from perfect, but I think now I’ve begun to embrace the many messes I’ve created. It’s far more interesting to live like that anyway.
