The Perfectionist

I snuck into my parents’ bedroom, tip-toed quietly, poked my head in, and grabbed my mom’s red church shoes with sparkly red gems on them. These were too big for me, since I was four years old and this was my first memory. I slipped my feet into them and clomped around, not worrying about who was watching and what they might think of me. I developed my first language of authenticity and optimism–knowing I could be myself without worrying about anyone’s perceptions of me. Eventually, I shuffled back to the closet and returned the shoes.

With a troublemaker for an older brother, I developed a fear of doing wrong and an intense desire to be good. My parents pushed me to be my best. I felt pressure from myself–I didn’t want to let myself down and feel shame and guilt for not doing my best. This meant being perfect in every way possible and developing a second language of perfection and rule following. I balanced my choices with my idea of perfection in a way that allowed me to be everything I thought I wanted. After putting those shoes back into the closet, I began to turn away from doing what I wanted to do and moved toward perfection, thinking it would make me happy.

The rules of my second language are as follows: You must be perfect. If you aren’t perfect, you must hide your imperfections. You must please everyone. You must follow every rule and you must never give up on anything, no matter what. You must be everything to everyone. You must be everything to yourself. You can’t let her down.

***

It was second grade and time where late winter turned to spring. I stood outside with my best friend, and I spilled a secret. Thinking we were alone, I turned to her and complained: “Ruby is kind of annoying.” Immediately after it slipped out of my mouth, I looked over and saw Ruby standing there, the cold wind sweeping the brown bangs across her painful eyes.

My gut dropped. I had broken the rules. There was no way to hide or take it back. My insides squirmed as the world around me disappeared and it was Ruby looking at me, me looking at Ruby. It might seem insignificant, but I’d say this is the worst thing I have ever done.

That day wouldn’t leave me alone. I sat down in my tenth grade English class, eight years later, bubbling with excitement. I looked up and there she was, sitting across from me. Her bangs had grown out and were a different cut around her face, but her hair was the same brown it had always been, with her strong, piercing blue eyes looking back into mine. Ruby.

My gut churned, and I shrunk back into my chair as my mind went back to second grade. Ruby didn’t mention it, but my mind spiraled. Around and around, Ruby is kind of annoying, slingshotting me from second grade, to the ache in my gut, to Ruby in front of me, and to what she’s thinking about me. How could she possibly forgive me? If I had stayed in line with my perfectionism, I wouldn’t have hurt her. If only I had followed my rules. If only, if only…

I was even more committed to staying true to my learned language of perfectionism after this, even though Ruby said nothing. It was all in my head–I punished myself because I had let my learned language slip and I reverted to a more authentic, relaxed language. This only made me want to follow my rules more–it would have saved me this pain. After this I remembered how willing I was to set aside my authenticity in order to keep my perfect image. I gave in to my second language to be happier, to be better.

***

When the world turned to chaos in 2020, I didn’t give myself an option for how seriously I would take pandemic guidelines. I took responsibility to keep myself and others safe. I emotionally distanced myself from everything and everyone during this time. I stayed home on weekends and read books and cuddled up on my bed, finding escapes in my mind. As time went on, I felt further away from the people I loved.

I constantly felt like someone was looking over my shoulder, seeing my imperfections. My second language was the dominant voice in my head. I felt like I was running away from who I had built myself to be, and I lost joy in everything. I wouldn’t admit to myself that I wasn’t okay. I refused to admit that I needed help and was depressed, because I held on to my perfection and to my adopted language. I thought admitting I needed help was tainting who I was, proving to myself I wasn’t cut out for life. I didn’t want to admit I needed help. I couldn’t return to my language of authenticity.

I was following rules and using my new language, so why wasn’t I happy? Why had I fallen apart? I didn’t understand why I wasn’t who I thought I was. I didn’t understand why my language of perfection wasn’t working, and I couldn’t let go of it. I had learned to demand perfection. I set aside my first language, ignored it, all for the sake of presenting a perfect image.

***

Unpacking my boxes and bags, I moved into an apartment for my first semester at BYU. Worried about sharing a room, I hid from my roommates. I didn’t feel like I could let them see my pain. I only spent time in my apartment when I had to, and I felt uncomfortable when I did. I hid behind an image of perfection, developing my second language to hide my pain and struggles.

It wasn’t until months later when I received the news that a friend had died by suicide, and with no way to hide my emotions, I broke the barrier I built with my roommates. I burst through the door, tears streaking my face, hardly able to stand up. I fell into their arms, sharing my pain and heart with them. For hours, they sat on the kitchen floor with me, trading off in shifts. Late into the night, I leaned on them, only after I let them in. Only after I found the courage to use my first language. Only after I was willing to give up my second language and let myself be seen.

I remembered being a child; I remembered those red shoes. I remembered being free and happy. I remembered the first language I learned and how it shaped my first years and how my second language shaped the years after. I remembered my young self who disregarded perfection, and who didn’t feel bound to the rules and language I had discovered. I remembered the relief I felt when I shared my pain. I wanted to live a life where I could be free to explore, free to live, free to feel pain, free to be me.

So maybe, just maybe, the worst thing I ever did wasn’t call Ruby annoying. The worst thing I ever did was fall victim to my own rules and second language, trying to force perfection, trying to force myself to be someone I didn’thave to be. I forgot my first language for the sake of perfection.

Maybe the worst thing I ever did was hold so tightly to my second language and forget to develop new languages, ones where I can find my authenticity with love, adventure, and acceptance. Maybe the worst thing I ever did was not talk about Ruby behind her back, but it was to put my mom’s red church shoes with those big red gems on the toes back into the closet.