I think perfectionism is the enemy of progress, because “perfect” isn’t real. The fickle nature of the reality of “perfect” is something chanted to children the second they understand the concept. “Nobody’s perfect”, right? Why do some of us feel this incessant need to chase self-constructed standards so high that they sometimes stop us from starting in the first place? Why do we try so hard to climb towards this subjective category that looks worlds different depending on whose eyes you gaze through?
My whole life, people have treated my perfectionism as a strength. Art school taught me that it’s truly the antagonist in my hero’s journey. In my first year, in my Drawing Studio class, I pushed those self-imposed standards to my near breaking point. My projects approached that coveted throne of what I considered to be perfect, but at what cost? The resulting burnout catapulted me into overcorrection. For the next semester, I hated everything that I made. I knew I couldn’t reach my standards, so I stopped trying completely. I settled for what my perfectionism had always rebelled against: being average, and sometimes, worse.
The same infection plagues my writing. Sisyphus’s eternal pushing of the rock up the hill seems to not even begin to compare to my battle with perfectionism. It’s somehow more strenuous. My Google Doc graveyard is packed with tombs of the stories I’ve abandoned because they aren’t perfect. One section bothers me, and I ditch the whole thing, then bury it where only a future me can find it. Looking back at something and hating it should mean that you’re growing, yet every time I start to feel confident, the goalpost moves further away.
I know my perfectionism is the root of my dissatisfaction with the plethora of my work most people would hold in acclaim, and the source of the procrastination that sometimes threatens my academic standing. I’m well aware that I’ll always be my own worst critic, which is unfortunate because, as we’ve established, I love being one. My perfectionism teams up with my imposter syndrome and then it’s game over for any sense of accomplishment. The imposter syndrome further complicates the situation by sometimes convincing me that I’m not even that much of a perfectionist, that it’s not the issue I think that it is. They’re the ugly two-headed, spiked boss in the last level of the video game, but I dropped in with a foam sword, dirty Reeboks, and one flickering life left. One blow, and I’m out, at least that’s what it feels like.
What am I supposed to do about it? There is no perfect solution (Apologies to anyone in the library who watched me cough away a laugh after writing that. It’s not funny, but it kind of is). Repeating “practice makes progress” only makes my eye twitch, and people’s praise or critique bounces off the forcefield of my discontentment.
I’ve lived both extremes, pushing for perfection, and forcing indifference that results in dissatisfaction, and the best thing I can do right now is work on the middle ground. It might be a lifelong quest, considering how often I’m redrawing the map. I’m working on setting reasonable standards, so that I don’t feel like I’m in freefall, missing a rung on a ladder, when I don’t like the result of my work. I’m working on knowing when to quit, avoiding that bone crush after the fall, and at the same time, how to forge through what I call the “ugly stage” of a project.
Something that has helped me is reshaping “perfect”, to something more attainable, more definable. Setting new rungs on the ladder that help push me to new goals without them being so high that I walk away. The system isn’t perfect, but I’m trying to learn that it doesn’t need to be.