Inwardly, I groaned and wished to disappear into the floor. "Just something else to feel pressured about," I lamented to myself. Though only in 8th grade, I was so tired of the academic expectations, so worn out from constant pressure to succeed and be 'the best' that there left very little room for me to enjoy my middle and high school years. Except for a few, rare bright moments that stand out in my memory---I was miserable.
That 8th grade year---I made up my mind. I determined not to win. I had already been placed in advanced classes and was struggling through Algebra, which I had been placed in a year early--and received my first B. The subject just didn't click with me. Letters--in my mind--were meant for creating descriptive, poetic words of self-expression---not to be used as pieces of equations that would most likely remain irrelevant to my life. The fear of exiting Algebra with a C--"average"-- was already weighing down on me. No way was I going to win a class spelling bee just to be handed pages of hellacious words to spend hours studying, so I could potentially go on to compete against the entire school---then county---then state. I was already spending hours each night trying to conquer Algebra and setting my alarm for 4:30 each morning to try to figure out what my tired mind had been unable to comprehend the night before.
I stood dismally in the line against the blackboard. The students who had no interest in the spelling bee purposely flubbed up easy words on the first try, receiving looks of disapproval from the teacher. How desperately I wished I could do that! But everyone expected more from me. They would know if I bumbled a word on purpose. And I would never cease to hear about their disappointment in me.
So I quietly spelled the words as they came to me. They were easy words; I couldn't pretend not to know them. One by one, the line of students slowly diminished, as I waited longingly for a huge, horrible word to be handed my way---one that I could blunder without anyone knowing it was intentional. I waited and waited; the contestants continued to decrease until--finally--the competition dwindled down to just me and an 8th grade classmate, one of the others at the top of the class---a bright, funny, intelligent boy liked by everyone. The class watched in fascination, as if they were viewing a hit movie where both the protagonists were also antagonists, where it was hard to be for one and against the other---the musical, academic girl who was painfully shy but offered a smile to everyone, kind and well-liked by her peers---or the smart, funny, outgoing young male who was involved in everything from football to running for Class President.
But I didn't want this. I didn't want the title of Spelling Bee Champion and was determined not to load myself down anymore. This was my moment, I decided. My decision. I could go out with the so-called 'honor' of runner-up, yet escape more excruciating hours of middle school pressures that were squeezing the life out of me already.
When another easy word came my way, I sighed so softly only I could hear, and thought, "Please! Who doesn't know how to spell that? I can't blow a spelling bee on that word." But, as often in life, patience eventually won out. Finally---the teacher recited to me a word---I don't remember what it was, but it was a tough one. The class held their breath, unsure what would happen and doubtful if either of us would be able to spell the ominous word.
But I knew the answer. I loved to read; the word was difficult but familiar, and I could spell it easily. But this time I would do what I wanted, not what everyone else wanted from me. Despite my lack of acting experience or my avoidance of the drama club, I conjured up every gesture, every facial expression I could muster, that would hopefully convince the class I really didn't know the word. "C--" I began, crinkling my eyes, letting the dark brown irises glance thoughtfully around the room to stall for time. I sighed and tentatively breathed out the second letter, while my classmates sat on the edge of their seats. I looked down and began wringing my hands, reciting a third letter, barely audible. "They're buying it!!" I thought with relief. "I can get out of this, and they'll never know!" I gazed thoughtfully to the ceiling for a moment, my eyebrows creased, calculating which letter I could present as a believable mistake---then whisked the remaining letters off my tongue in a hurry---purposely, gleefully, knowing exactly which one of them was wrong.
"That is incorrect," the teacher responded, and the class breathed out sighs of "Ohhh!" and watched breathlessly to see if my classmate could pull off the correct letters.
"Please. Please, get it," I inwardly begged him, wanting this whole game to be over with. He slowly, methodically spelled the word, every letter correct, and the class clapped and cheered for him. Always the gentleman even at such a young age, he shook my hand, and I smiled, said my thanks and congratulations. I sat down, next to encouraging classmates saying, "Good job, Misty. That was a hard word," but I just smiled back.
I watched as the teacher handed our new champion a stack of pages to study to prepare for the school-wide spelling bee and, with a snicker, I thought light-heartedly:
"Sucker."
I was free.
Recently, a friend and I were delving into a deep discussion about perfectionism---about how this, this example above, is what perfectionism does to you. While being gifted in different areas would seem to potentially make a person over-confident or arrogant, it often has the opposite effect. Perfectionism leads to:
the fear of mistakes and failure,
the loss of desire to even try,
the prison of trying to live up to everyone's expectations,
believing in one person's criticism while overlooking ten people's affirmations,
never learning our true gifts, because stepping outside of the box is too risky,
yet always struggling with the deep yearning to just live life as oneself,
in freedom, without constant thoughts of every surrounding pressure.
Perfectionism causes 8th grade girls to get by on four-and-a-half hours of sleep a night---
not from the fear of failing Algebra---but from the fear of even being average at it.
Perfectionism causes people with multiple talents to fear venturing out
beyond the one thing they are good at, afraid they might be good at nothing else.
Perfectionism causes healthy men and women to look in mirrors and
see distorted, disfigured images looking back at them.
Perfectionism paralyzes.
And the one common thread running between the fabric of all perfectionism is this:
the need for others' approval,
an unhealthy desire to please,
living with a fluctuating confidence that is based on others' opinions instead of our own.
How to stop living paralyzed by perfectionism?
Recognize that you will never be on your A-game, all the time, every time,
and accept that as normal.
Realize that other people aren't required to like you
and don't need to approve of your abilities or dreams---only you do.
Look in the mirror and see that imperfect person,
your world-weary, beat up by life, bumbling, stumbling self,
and remember that you were designed by a Perfect Creator.
And as that truth seeps into the deepest parts of your being---
through days, weeks, months, and sometimes even the long, passing years---
filled with painful reminders and concentrated efforts,
perfectionism slowly seeps out of your soul.
But the space it leaves does not remain empty for long...
Freedom moves in.
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