Perfectionism
Sunday, April 24, 2011 at 8:23PM 
I grew up in chaos. It made me crave order. I was so obsessed with things being organized, that it was my escape. Everything had to be perfect - and if it wasn't, I made sure that it was, no matter what it cost me. My socks had to be rolled up in a particular way, my skirt couldn't have any creases in it, my hair had to be combed smoothly into a braid. My pencils had to be sharpened - all of them. My desk had to be clean - always. My school books had to be put neatly into the school bag. OCD? Perhaps. Perhaps even worse, if you consider how far this spread. Since my abuse dealt with my physical body, my perfectionism spread there as well, as a way of trying to control at least something. My looks.
When I was little, it was easy. I started taking care of myself early, combed my hair and brushed my teeth and made sure my clothes stayed clean. All of my features didn't really bother me, I looked pretty much like every other kid, with nothing out of the ordinary. It was not until puberty hit, when I saw that I was different - the unibrow, the curly hair, the non-typical Russian look - the things that started growing - my nose, my breasts, my hips. I suddenly focused on my own self and viewed it under the lens of perfectionism - the same way I viewed things around me, and it hit me. I wasn't perfect. The way I looked wasn't perfect. I started nibbling away at things that irritated me, and instead of focusing on what I liked, I focused on what I hated, and hated it more every day. I didn't fit into the order, but I couldn't "clean myself up", and it was the ultimate failure in my eyes. The beginning was to get rid of the unibrow, and it started snowballing from there. Nothing I had was to my satisfaction. I hated my growing nose - but I couldn't chop it off, so I escaped pictures being taken of me, especially in profile. I hated my curly hair, so I made sure most of my adult life it was short, so short, in fact, that it couldn't curl at all. I dressed in jeans and t-shirts, because of course I despised my curves, and I didn't feel they looked curvy enough to deserve being shown.
It has gotten to the point of no return, to the point where I almost morphed into a robotic soldier boy - once being a girl in the past - marching forward, being "cleaned" on a regular basis, to make sure that nothing stuck out, that nothing was imperfect, that everything fit a straight geometry - from shortly cropped hair, to straight jeans, to flat sneakers, to no jewelry, to short clipped nails, to perfectly clean and matching socks, to the no-show bra - you name it. I occasionally broke through this pattern, but it didn't last long. Until I understood where all of this is coming from and started accepting myself as I am. Imperfect. I still struggle, a lot, with the patterned thinking that dominated my behavior for so many years. I still battle the urge to chop my hair off, so close to the scalp that it would stop curling. I still shy away from clothes that hug me too tight. I still can't bear looking at myself in the mirror without obsessing over the size of my forehead, the way the skin wrinkles under my eyes, the way my body is shaped - but all of this is giving away, slowly. I feel that the grip of perfectionism is letting go. That it is a useless fairy tale that I tell myself - but that has nothing to do with reality. And no matter how much I wish I looked different, I'm not. And instead of pretending I could look this or that or else, I can start loving what I have, because it's part of life - and it's imperfect. It is chaotic, by definition, and no amount of thinking and cleaning and obsessing will change that.
I struggle the most with pictures. Every time a photograph is taken of me, I hate it. I can't stand it. There are very few that actually pass my own criticism. My battle with it? Taking more every day. Photographing myself so much, that I start seeing my face and my body in a different light, as it is, and accepting it for what it is, and loving it - as it is, and not as it should be - one hypothetical day that will never arrive. It is hard to let go. I have to grab myself by the hands and slap myself on the wrists. I have to peel my eyes open and make myself look at my pictures. I have to get over the hump and relax - let the chaos roll around me, and be with it. The strange thing is - when I do that, I'm happy. Just like I was when I was little. Unaware of the need to obsessively organize my life - living it moment to moment. Even in this moment - battling with perfectionism of this blog, thinking it's not good enough, not worth people's time, not perfectly written and not interesting. I am letting go. It's the truth, and it's never perfect. No such thing. I am hitting the button "publish".
Photo by Royce Daniel.
Reader Comments (5)
Good for you, Ksenia. Nobody is perfect and we should love ourselves the way we are, wrinkles and all. I encourage you to hit "publish" as often as you can, because I really enjoy reading your posts!
You are not perfect..You are "Ksenia" Your uniqness is what makes you beautiful!! Beauty comes in many kinds ..many colors, sizes and shapes..and one kind is you..Ksenia! First time I saw you..I told my friend Natasha.."that lady is so beautiful..she has a great smile and is full of energy..I can't give her more than 20 something" and I'm not making that up! I'm being honest!! I don't butter people! and the pictures you post of yourselves online don't give any Justice because you look more beautiful in person!!
Thanks guys - this really helps - I just get into my "dark" moods occasionally, and that was one of them. I'm glad you're reading my stuff - this makes me to write more! Xoxo
I'm familiar with those dark moods! Never regret something you wrote…What you are doing is self healing !! Keep writing….
Will do :)