For the longest time, I had this “perfect” image of who I should to be. As long as I could live up to that image, or at least make it seem like I had the “perfect” life, somehow everything would be under control, and I’d be less scared of the world. For a while, this worked. I got straight As. Honestly, I still mostly do, and mostly did when I was my sickest. I came into my first year with $13 000 in scholarships, and the bar was set. Each year, I told myself that I had to beat that total (I never did. I do still have scholarships, but life doesn’t always work out the way you want. School is hard). In fact, I actually got my highest-ever grades when I was the most mentally ill I’ve ever been. At that time, I thought I had so much control over everything. And I convinced myself that I was happy, because I had this “perfect” life. Good grades, a job, involved with extracurriculars, great friends. I went home to an awesome family for holidays, got some great food, and was very loved. But, I couldn’t help but feel like everyone important to me was going to walk away. When my perfectionism reached its peak, when I was so deep into this façade I had created for myself, I couldn’t feel connected to my friends. I felt like every time they said that they cared about me, they must have been lying to make me feel better.
I created this image of myself, and faked it so well for so long that I almost started to believe it. But, bluntly, I was miserable. It looked like I was a good student, a good friend, a good daughter, and employee. It looked like I loved to cook and was good at nourishing myself with good foods that would make me strong. It looked like I was in control of my exercise habits, and that my smile was genuine. What no one saw, though, was the tear-stained pillows and the countless hours spent trying to figure out what the point of all of this was. No one saw the hours of encouragement it took from those who cared about me to get me to reach out for help. No one saw the hundreds of times I walked through the doors of different offices, once again having to advocate for myself against this illness I still wasn’t convinced existed. I still wanted to hide it, though. Because I was “perfect”. I had to be. What were my other choices? Got that 4.0? Not good enough. Do better. My best friend’s second cousin’s stepsister got a 4.2 when she graduated so I should too… even when I was trying my best, it was just never good enough. I would look at “inspiration” on the internet. “Fitspiration”, “thinspiration”, all of these “life hacks” that promised me better skin, stronger hair, a happier life. But I never got any of these things. I couldn’t be perfect. No one can be. I only started to be happy when I found it within myself.
It didn’t matter how many group therapy sessions I went to, how many dozens of times I walked into my psychologists’ office, how many hundreds of tears I shed on my boss’s couch – I wanted them all to give me the answers my heart was aching for, but they didn’t have them. All they could do was help me find them within myself. I was impatient. Perfectionism and patience usually don’t go hand in hand. I didn’t want to take the time to get better. I needed to be perfect. I needed to sleep less, eat less, eat better, run faster, study harder. I needed to network because we live in an extrovert’s world and future employers don’t care about the socially anxious. I needed to hide all of these “undesirable” qualities of mine if I was ever going to be truly loved. I needed to stop getting overwhelmed, learn how to cry in secret, and add more to my already busy schedule.
What’s more, I would compare myself to others’ progress. I would compare myself to others’ grades, others’ exercise patterns, and I would always feel like I was coming up short. Until I realized: they aren’t me. We can’t live the same life, because we are different people. No “right”, no “wrong”… we just have to live for ourselves, and our own needs. I also felt like my mental illness was the most noticeable thing about me, and that it made me a bad person, daughter, sister, and friend. That’s self-stigma, and it invaded every single aspect of my life, and prevented me from talking about my experiences for so long. But here’s a bit of truth for you – the kindest, strongest, most creative, and most passionate people I know live mental illness(es). This is because we have to think outside the box to live our lives. “Traditional” hasn’t been kind to us. So, we had to improvise. We love with our whole hearts, because we know how much of a difference love, compassion, and understanding can make in a person’s life. I have literally met some of my best friends in therapy, through mental health public speaking, and writing for the organizations that I do. They inspire me to be creative, and take care of myself in the best way I know how – words.
For most of my life, I equated creativity with failure. Which is ironic, seeing as I’ve dedicated the past 8 years of my life to working in theatre. I loved being creative, but I think that after hearing “what are you going to do with that degree?” “Aren’t you afraid of how you’re going to support yourself?” and “Have fun waiting tables”, I internalized the belief that my choices were setting me up for failure. So, I wanted structure. I wanted to find some schematic I could follow for a “successful” life. For a “perfect” life. Then, I learned how amazing creativity made me feel. I learned that words could be my sword, helping me fight my own internal battles. I learned that words can heal. That words can be like diving into a cold swimming pool in the middle of July. Like aloe vera on a sunburn. Words were beautiful. Words gave me hope.
I came across Maia Mayer’s slam poem “Perfect” a few months ago, and it hit something deep within me. It made me cry. More than anything, I could see how Maia could heal from this poem. I could see her exposing her raw emotions, laying them out for the world to see, and finding freedom. In this moment, I realized that I could be different that I the “perfect” image I had created. And that maybe that was okay. I started making small changes in my life, and doing little things that made me happy. That meant “fake it ‘til you make it” for a while. It meant feeling guilty for going to get noodles with a friend instead of studying one night, and then doing it again, and again, until I was guilt-free. Even the smallest things, like adding more sugar to my coffee, learning to be okay with hitting snooze on my alarm (it’s seriously the best feeling ever), and not setting n alarm on weekends. Budgeting in enough time to make a nourishing breakfast, instead of just grabbing a banana on the go. It meant taking time to explore what I enjoyed, and slowly integrating it into my life. And, yes, it meant writing. It meant writing. It meant failing at writing. It meant writing really bad poems, and keeping at it until I wrote better ones. It meant saying YES to things that scared me, and no to things that didn’t help me grow. It meant giving up on being perfect. And my goodness, was it ever worth it.
The happiness I was looking for in my “perfect” life? I found it in this messy, confusing, flawed one. I found it in letting myself be vulnerable, and crying in my friends’ living rooms at 2am. It meant giving up drinking, then getting slightly too drunk off of one beer because my tolerance was completely gone. It meant laughing at myself when I tripped on the sidewalk, and apologizing to a professor for spilling coffee on my final paper. It meant telling people that I cared about them. It meant asking for help when I needed it. It meant telling people “I want to date you” for the first time in my life, and being rejected. It meant saying yes to dates that just didn’t feel right, and learning from it. It meant saying “I’m scared, but I want to do this anyways”. It meant being awkward as anything. And it was beautiful. It meant learning how to love and be loved. It meant telling people that I was afraid of losing them.
You can break free of perfection. It’s hard, but I absolutely promise that a beautiful life is waiting for you. Your story is going to be a great one, and it’s all yours. Isn’t that amazing?
