Like so many people, esp women, I struggled for a long time with perfectionism. It was part of my over-exercising and eating disorders—be perfectly thin and fit to be loved. Being that I am a Type B personality most of the time, my perfectionism often fell short. I could keep a perfectly clean house, but my clothing and hair often reflected my B-side. (On the first date with the Best Hubs ever I wore a bottom-of-the-closet hand-me-down pit-stained shirt that was a little too small—because I only do laundry every three to four weeks and it was nearing time—and had florescent yellow hair from a bottle job gone wrong, which I tried to cover with a purple and pink Ford breast cancer scarf that I had no idea how to use.)
Looking at pictures of “perfect families”—as my brain misinterpreted “perfect pictures” of families—on social media after My Little Milkaholic was born sent me into a tailspin. I cried for weeks feeling like I would never look that good or live up to that standard. Luckily, that tailspin sent me to a therapist, which has done wonders!
Most people associate perfectionism with high-achievers, Type A personalities. People who are put together and successful. This misunderstanding made it hard for me to identify in myself. I have largely let go of my clean freak tendencies, but it occurred to me the other day that perfectionism can insert itself in all sorts of weird ways. For me, this includes perfectionist thinking.
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