The Prison of Perfectionism

Hello my name is Hannah and I am a perfectionist.  I am what you would call a “discouraged” perfectionist.  I’m the type that had some ideal in mind and came to the disappointing conclusion that there’s nothing anyone or I could ever do to meet that ideal and as a result live a tumultuous existence between never doing anything or trying to do everything.  Admittedly, I am not the obvious kind of perfectionist where everything is in order and hair in place but nonetheless, internally, I suffer the nasty disease of perfectionism.  I don’t really care much about what others do or how they do it, but I do care about the things that represent who I am.  I especially care about anything that determines or grades my worth.  There’s another term for this - performance orientation for which I will shamelessly blame my upbringing.

My early education was done in the British or classical system.  The British actually have a saying which pretty much summarizes their educational paradigm:  “the roots of education are bitter.”  In other words, suffer early on in the discipline it takes to learn and you will bear much fruit later as you mature.  I wonder if they ever took pointers from the Spartans because my experience for the first eight years of my life was for lack of a better word, truly “bitter.”  All of my performance was graded.  We actually had a point system called “stars & stripes.”  If you did well you would get a star, if you did poorly, you would get a stripe.  If you collected more than three stripes, you would not only have to confess your failure to your entire house (think slyterhin, gryffindor from Harry Potter) and pay a visit to the headmaster or headmistress where you would get the “tacky” (hit with a sneaker on your behind) or the “whip” (whipped with horse whip on your legs).  Thankfully, I never got the tacky or the whip though I was sensitive enough to fear the idea of it so much that I would do everything I could to avoid punishment.

One particular memory that I have was on graduation day which we called “speech” day.  Now on speech day each class has students who are recognized for their scholastic achievements.  First place, second place and the effort prize are awarded to deserving students.  There was one particular year which stands out in my mind.  This was the year that my older sister received the effort prize in her class and also was recognized as the future head prefect of the school.  This was also the year that my younger sister received second place in her year.  This was also the year that I received absolutely no recognition for anything.  (Darn my smart and overachieving sisters!)

Before you begin to feel sorry for me (please don’t, I’m fine now), please note - performance orientation + shame + sensitive nature = discouraged perfectionist.  My struggle with perfectionism really comes from a lie that I began to believe in very early in my life; that is that my worth and essentially my acceptability is tied to my performance and achievements.  That’s why failure is very difficult for me and I expend a great deal of energy trying to avoid failure.  In recognizing my own struggle with perfectionism, I have gone through the different extremes of trying to rid myself of this disease.  Whether it is deliberately trying to fail at things or fervently trying to keep things from unraveling, one thing I’ve learned is that my perfectionism indicates a lack in my relationship with God and others.  It comes from a deficit in being able to receive unconditional love.  This truth has really acted as a disinfecting agent in my heart at times, even burning and scarring the hard to accept the essence of the Gospel - that there is absolutely nothing I can do by my own strength to be released from the standards I have tried all my life to reach and that it is only through the recognition that I am sinner saved by grace that I can even begin to experience liberation from this prison.

Despite the difficulties of my early education, I have come to really embrace all that it had to offer me.  Whether it was a smashing british accent which unfortunately has turned into a hybrid of Chicago/British/Kenyan/Korean accent - don’t ask me how to say the word “from,” or whether it was in being trained early in the bitterness of learning, one thing it has added into my life and my own faith journey is that I am starved for grace in my life.  Similar to a parched piece of desert land that soaks in raindrops during the rainy season, grace has become that fuel which continues to transform and direct my life.