Perfection or bust

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The quest for perfectionism is, for me, never-ending and exhausting. It used to be that I was a perfectionist over my studies at college, and later, university. I worked hard and for many hours on completing projects, performances, dissertations, presentations. Sure, I also went about it in a haphazard way because I also happen to be dyslexic. I became an old hand at pulling all-nighters to get my work in on time. My chaotic personality relished the pressure, the tiredness, how ridiculous it all was. A fabled occasion was when writing my university dissertation on post-modern feminism and the rise burlesque. Gathering all the information and doing all the interviewing had been fun, but actually sitting down to write the thing was another matter. I was staying at my parent's and basically sat up writing all night for three weeks. The day before I was due to hand it in, I worked from late morning until 5am of the big day, proofing, referencing, printing. I had an hours' sleep, then I was up, grabbed some toast and a shower and travelled in to London to hand it in. There are times when going a bit hypomanic is fantastic. This was one of them: I got a first in my degree and was awarded the Dean's prize for 'Outstanding Thesis'.

The last few years have been somewhat less enchanting: I've found throwing myself into work extremely difficult. Perhaps I've just never found what I wanted to do with my life. So, my perfectionist tendencies have instead been focused on my appearance. It started when I moved to London, where there is a definite pressure to look and dress a certain 'way'. This was especially true of the sectors I worked in: beauty and grooming journalism and PR. As a journo I was mingling with the fashion and grooming editors from the big magazines, all of whom were just endlessly glamorous, even in a simple blouse and jeans. I often felt out of place with them, dressed to the nines in chic designer get-ups, whilst I was busy trying to make my high street tat look passable. That said, on the whole that circle were lovely and welcomed me into the group. When I moved into PR (error), I was thrown into a pit of younger, cooler girls who I felt looked 10 times better than me and the feelings of inadequacy grew. Only, I started getting comments about how glamorous I was from different departments, how I always looked great. But was I really part of the fold? Did I fit in? Did I bollocks.

Now I'm living back home its highlighted what a neurotic mess London, in part, turned me into. I stress for an hour over which top to put on with my jeans: does it look fashion-forward? Does it flatter me? Is it making me look fat? Emphasising my thunder thighs? And where might I be previewing said outfit? A walk to the shops to pick up some milk and cereal. Tragic.

And the joke about it is, no one, unless they know me very well would have any idea that I put myself through this exhausting regime every day. That I have to look just so. That my make-up has to be perfect, and my hair too, except its dry and shit and never looks it. That sometimes I'll go through the whole routine, and then feel so ashamed of myself, of how disgusting I think I look, that I don't even bother leaving the house at all because I can't bear any eyes on me.

Not that I think people are going to take time out of their busy schedules to stop and stare at me, because its not about wanting to look gorgeous, this perfectionism thing. Its about feeling vile. Its about crippling self-loathing. It's about a rock-bottom lack of self-confidence. 

It's a prison I want to break out of. I'm tired of this bondage.