I’ve considered writing to be a near perfect form of catharsis for quite some time.

I think this idea stems from the diaries of my childhood. Purple and pink soft-covered booklets filled with terrible sketches of flowers and ramblings about all the kids in my neighborhood, locked up with tiny heart-shaped padlocks, forever populating the surface area of my nightstand, stuffed in countless dresser and desk drawers, holding no real secrets and no real heartache but simply standing as a symbol of feelings felt, considered, and put to paper where they relinquished some of their power.

I can remember how it felt to write in my second-grade scrapbook about my childhood trip to Disney World, feeling as if I could capture the entire experience and share it with my classmates, just by jotting down a few notes, marking down my memories.

I remember writing my first love note, writing angsty song lyrics on a coach bus trip in middle school, and writing a tear-streaked apology note my sophomore year.

I’ve written hasty and belated birthday cards, honorary haikus, and panic-filled text messages. And sometimes the writing is easy and it flies out and it is all I can do to get my muscles to keep up with the beautiful music flowing from my temples through my shoulders and out my fingertips.

And more often lately, the writing is hard. And it is torn from me in tiny pieces. And it leaves a mark as it leaves my mind but it has to go.

Because I’ve considered writing to be a near perfect form of catharsis for quite some time. And I hope it’s okay if I share some of that catharsis here. I think the beauty of blogging is that no one could read this, but I feel comfort knowing that it’s out. That I pressed my fingers into each button on my keyboard and I thought these thoughts and I got them out. It’s a real healing process.

And if you read this and are comforted, I’m sending all my cathartic thoughts to you as well. The internet, as much as it seems to separate us, reminds us that we are never alone and that no human experience is ever really experienced in isolation. So with that said…

Perfectionism is a real bitch, guys.

Have you ever had to answer that interview question about your greatest weakness? The idea is to choose something that’s not actually bad, right, so it appears that you are without weakness! I’ve seen more than one sitcom character practice saying that *perfectionism* is their greatest flaw. They just want everything to be TOO perfect and they just work TOO hard and pay TOO much attention to detail. This, of course, is an utter load of bullshit.

I HATE my life as a perfectionist.

I HATE when people joke about being a perfectionist or say it is their worst trait without a solid understanding of what perfectionism means to some people. For me, being a perfectionist doesn’t mean that I pay extra attention to detail and do everything to the best of my ability. It partly means that, yes, but it also means that I feel paralyzed by the thought of doing something poorly. It means that I second guess every choice made, every opportunity I say yes to, every dream I dare to let float across my often-flexed-forehead.

For me, perfectionism is a constant battle of hell-raising my own expectations, missing the impossible-to-reach bar, and berating myself for being the ultimate failure. It’s one thing to strive for greatness and it is an entirely different thing to strive for perfection. It keeps me up at night but it also keeps me in bed until the last possible moment. I want to do things so perfectly that I have failed before I’ve even started, so why bother starting at all?

When I have chipped nail polish, I assume that people think I’m trashy and terrible at taking care of myself.

When I can’t figure out the perfect outfit to wear, I feel like my entire day is falling apart. I constantly feel like an impostor of an adult, a teacher, a real human person. I assume that being a successful adult means that you do everything perfectly all the time. That’s what everyone else is doing, isn’t it?

So writing is a near perfect form of catharsis for me. Because when you are a perfectionist, nothing is ever perfect and nothing ever fits exactly right, and nothing ever really actually satisfies you or feels good enough or feels like anything other than complete and utter failure.

But sometimes, pushing my fingers into keys and thinking my thoughts, and setting them free, is a moment of comfort and relief. A moment that feels almost like perfection.

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