Fear of Rejection and the Quest for Perfection

For a long time now I've avoided telling people about this blog and I've avoided posting anything to it -- both for the same reason: if I say I am a writer and I do not write perfectly or do not write about interesting things (i.e., if I am not perfect), then I will be rejected. I will be revealed as a fraud -- I might even be pitied, which for me is the ultimate insult. Just yesterday it occurred to me, as the cat slipped out of the bag and people began logging onto my blog after Thanksiving dinner, that I will write anyway, imperfectly, and about any subject without worrying about the approval of my audience. So as Flip Wilson (or his alter-ego, Geraldine) used to say in my childhood, What you see is what you get!

For some reason I never really felt like an adult until I turned 40, when I gave myself permission to be one, or finally recognized that I was one, regardless of my illusions to the contrary. Being in my 40s is liberating in the sense that I can make declarations about myself. I can embrace my personality and celebrate it, instead of looking for ways to bend it to another's liking. I am a finished product to the extent that one can ever really be 'finished,' which is not to imply that I never want to improve or grow or learn. I still want to do all of those things, but I am comfortable with who I am. I no longer need to qualify myself - I declare myself qualified.

Now about perfection. For a long time, I couldn't send a first draft of a written letter. If the handwriting slanted to one side or if a word had to be smudged out, even on the back side of a long letter, or if I thought of a cleverer way of saying something, I had to wad up that page and start over. Page after page after page. In college, I ducked into restrooms before every class to brush my hair and retouch my make-up. I've agonized over having a clean house (especially for houseguests), over striking just the right tone in my communications with people, over dotting all my i's and crossing all of my t's, and I have reaped rewards for all of these efforts: occasional recognition for my excellent penmanship, favorable relations with every living person I've ever known, excellent credit, a respectable GPA, etc. But I have paid a price, too, in terms of personal satisfaction. As a perfectionist, I could not, by definition, be satisfied with myself.

The odd thing is that I am not a critical person by nature. I forgive other people their mistakes quite easily. I even make excuses for their bad behavior and try earnestly to love them anyway and to reassure them of their worth. From time to time I catch myself earnestly admiring the imperfections of others, imagining how wonderful it would be to allow myself to be flawed with impunity. (I am flawed, of course, but I punish myself accordingly.)

My inner critic turns a blind eye to everyone but me, saying he is who he is, and she is who she is, but you cannot be who you are. You must be better than you are. You must improve.

I am going to work at accepting myself as readily as I accept others.