Dear Perfectionism,

Dear Perfectionism,

You and I have been buddies for a long time—ever since I can remember, really.  It’s been you and me.  You’ve been there every second of everyday.  I couldn’t seem to escape you so instead I caved and just accepted you.

I’m still not sure if that decision was a good one or not.

You’re my worst critic and yet you’re my savior.  You drag me down into the depths of the ocean, a chain on my neck, but you also make me the best I can be, soaring through the sky, looking down below at my achievements.  You allow me to stand victorious, yet when I finally stand on my trembling legs, I’m peppered with purplish bruises and painful scars.

I still haven’t decided if letting you control my life was wise or not.

I’ll be honest with you—you make me feel insecure.  So, so insecure.  When I don’t reach your high expectations, I crumble like a cookie, falling to the floor only to be swept and thrown away.  When I don’t reach you, you force me to feel terrible.  You force me to face my flaws.  You force me to deny that they’re real and change them.  But I can’t.  And yet you force me to try anyways even though I’m bound to fail.

That’s the hard thing I guess—I can’t accept failure.  When I learned to accept you, I rejected failure.  I rejected my faults.

They’re there though.  Even though you try to deny it; even though they’re covered in concealer and contained in a box.  They’re still there.

My self-image—my confidence—sucks because of you.  Every time I see myself in a mirror, I cower and wonder what I can do better.  What can I do to make myself skinnier?  Prettier?  I compare myself to everyone because of you and all I see are my flaws because of you.  I hate you for that.  I love you for that.  You’ve waged a stagnant war in myself and it’s both tearing me apart and holding me together.

In school, you’ve made me the best student I can be.  Straight As, top of my class.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m very, very thankful.  However, I could do without the constant stress, pressure, and high expectations.  It’s like I’m sinking into the ocean, water caving in on all sides, weight on my chest and I can’t breathe; but it’s also like a standing ovation, applauds from all corners of the auditorium, pride beaming from my smiling face.

In sports and drama and everything I do, you tell me to only accept the best.  You’ve weaseled your way into my life, planted and blossomed and taken root, your branches holding me back and beckoning me forward.  You’ve taught me to erase my mistakes and put my best foot forward with hard work and loads of effort.

But I’m not perfect and sometimes I forget that because of you.

So, please, be more kind to me.  Give me space to breathe.  I can’t live and be the best I can be if I can’t breathe.  I want to get rid of you because you wear me down and you wear me out.  But I don’t want to get rid of you—you give me purpose, happiness, goals for myself.  You’re a drug I can’t seem to let go of, giving me a high I’m constantly craving—someday, though, I know I’m going to crash from the high mountain I’m on.

The question is: will you save me or not?

I guess we’ll find out.

Sincerely,

Payton