I’ve spent the better part of three hours on my blog today. I crafted what I’m sure was a great entry on Bipolar Disorder and its hereditary path through my family.
So why are you reading this instead of that?
The answer is simple. I’m a perfectionist. I trashed it because it didn’t flow properly. It didn’t paint the picture I envisioned. It wasn’t up to snuff.
Some claim the title of perfectionist as a badge of honor. I certainly do not. It takes too much of my time and steals my energy. It robs me of accomplishments I should relish and keeps me from doing the things I want to do because I’m afraid of any small failure.
I know all these things yet I continue to do them just the same. I once took a psychological examination that revealed I have “unrelenting standards” and “fear of abandonment”. Needless to say, I wasn’t shocked. I’ve learned that making people feel like they aren’t good enough for me leads them to leave.
Hell, I’d leave me if I could.
Who wants to try their hardest only to be told repeatedly it isn’t good enough? It’s a form of emotional abuse and nobody should ever be willing to live their life that way. As my luck goes, I still find myself living with an abuser I can never walk away from … myself.
So what can I do? I’ve been told that I need to begin by realizing that nothing is perfect. The catchy phrase “everyone makes mistakes, that’s why pencils have erasers” has been quoted to me a few times. My perfectionist says: Well that’s all fine and good but I don’t want to use a damn pencil. I use pens, so I better get it right the first time.
And thus the cycle continues …
Maybe my first attempt will be here. Now.
I’m ending this blog with no clear cut ending and promising myself that I won’t return to edit it 100 times like I do every other post. … maybe