I am a Virgo. It is in my cosmological nature to thrive on organization and detail. Sometimes to distraction. You could say I am a born perfectionist. I am punctual and responsible. I love everything in its place, nice and tidy. I cannot leave a bed unmade for more than five minutes after waking (even in a hotel). If there are dishes drying on the rack, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end; I am compelled to grab a rag and get to work.
But there is a nurture aspect to my perfectionist nature. I was raised by two English teachers. As children, my two sisters and I conjugated verbs at the dinner table. It was considered a wildly fun family game.
When I was twenty-one, I worked in Manhattan as the executive assistant to a very French and very uptight vice president of a very prestigious corporation. Perfectionism was on the job description, and errors were punishable by disdainful silent treatment—or outright dismissal. My boss once stood over my shoulder as I sealed an envelope for her and reminded me to lick the stamp before I applied it. (This was, of course, back in the days of yore when we had to lick stamps.)
For ten years, I worked as a freelance editor and proofreader for books, magazines, newspapers, and websites. It was my job to make others look good. And I excelled at it.
And yet, I often found myself unable to apply the same perfectionistic talents to my own life. I felt as though I was constantly making major, catastrophic, irredeemable errors.
I was Stockholm Syndromed by perfectionism.
I would lose sleep if—despite several proofreading passes—I discovered a typo in a query letter I’d just emailed to a publisher. My kitchen counters never had a crumb on them, but I always felt like I lived in a hovel. Although my clothing was arranged neatly by color in the closet, I was dissatisfied with the shabby quality of much of my wardrobe.
In short, I was Stockholm Syndromed by perfectionism. I was so well-trained to do everything correctly—devouring the positive reinforcement I received when I succeeded—that not doing so was simply not an option. If something got screwed up at my hands, it wasn’t the situation that was wrong, it was I who was wrong. My very being was defective. I was addicted to approval from others, and it was slowly smothering my sense of self.
It wasn’t until I was in my 30s that I realized how exhausting it was to keep up all the organizing, arranging, filing, scrubbing, folding, pressing, stacking, and tucking. Not only that, I found I spent more time berating myself for having failed than encouraging myself to keep going. My life was full of more negative self-talk than the gentleness and love I gave to everyone else around me.
Didn’t I deserve some of that love as well? Or a better question: Why did I deem others around me more worthy of love than I did myself?
It was then I decided to retrain myself. I began to think of myself as someone other than the perpetual cock-up self I had come to know and loathe—someone deserving of love.
I promised—goddess forbid—to start letting things slide. If I forgot a name, misspelled “its” by adding a hasty apostrophe, didn’t fold the damned fitted sheet just so, I would remain peaceful.
It was hard. In the first cover letter I sent to a potential teaching job (teaching writing, mind you), I typed that I had “lead” (present tense) workshops instead of “led” them (past tense). That slacker spellcheck didn’t get it, and neither did I. The familiar bilious wave of self-disgust rose up from my solar plexus (the chakral seat of self), but rather than allow it to overtake my entire being, I stopped and took a very long and very deep breath.
I told myself that it was all right. No, I probably wouldn’t get the job (no self-respecting university would give a job as a writing instructor to someone who has a typo in her cover letter), but that was okay. The typo has been corrected and there are always other jobs. I reminded myself that I was a good person with an iron-strong work ethic; this was just an oversight borne of excitement at the prospect of teaching what I love.
There were several more instances where I had to talk myself off the ledge, but over time they worked. Ten years later, I am a much softer being. Not “One-Flew-Over-the-Cuckoo’s-Nest-post-lobotomy” soft, but I have tempered the mania of perfection.
These days I’ve released the obsession with details in favor of bold strokes of love toward a fast-storming sky or a tree. I take delight in the larger picture of this life, not the pixels.
Most importantly, I learned to be gentle and loving toward myself—and all my perfect imperfections.
If you find a typo in this article, please don’t tell me. I’ve already found it and am having a celebratory cup of tea.