When I was a kid I used to put immense pressure on myself. I spent all of my time fixating on doing things perfectly, whether it was a school assignment, a storyline of Barbie’s next adventure, or a drawing, if I couldn’t do it perfectly, then there was no point in doing it at all.
I can recall many times erasing and carefully rewriting my name again on my homework until it pleased me. After a while, if I couldn’t get it perfect, I’d slap my wrists until my hands would shake. “Now there’s no way I could get it perfect.”
Also as a kid, I was fortunate to have a mom who was pretty fashion conscious. She worked at a kid’s clothing store for most of my childhood because of this, having perfectly coordinated outfits became a core part of my personality. But there were times when I’d forget my matching earrings or I’d wear the wrong socks. Upon realizing this I’d be so enraged with myself. In my mind, the only option I had was to self-sabotage. I’d frizz my hair into a bird’s nest or purposely spill food on my shirt and call it all an accident.
As if it hadn’t been so already, I took my perfectionism to a ruthless new level.