hat: Daiso; shirt: hand me down; blouse: TJ Maxx;
pants: Forever 21; shoes: Halogen; bag: Michael Kors
Perfectionist is a thing that I am. Over the past five or so years I've been working really hard to fight it, and I've gotten better, but my perfectionism still manages to persist. Non-perfectionists tend to wonder why I would want to eliminate my perfectionism, and I guess that's understandable--who wouldn't want to be perfect?
Perfectionism is a desire for just that: perfection. Problem is, we don't live in a perfect world. Perfection is impossible. A perfectionist isn't a person living in a clean room full of straight lines and organized shelves. Sure, my room is clean, my handwriting's neat, and my closet is organized, but perfectionism goes beyond that. At its worst, perfectionism is an obsession--an uncontrollable urge to have everything done my way. And, at least for me, when that need cannot be fulfilled, anxiety ensues. Frustration because things aren't going according to plan. Anger because I'm incapable of executing a simple task. Stress. Tears. Fists. And when it's all over, I just feel like a stupid failure.
I used to always feel a bit annoyed when classmates called them selves or other people perfectionists for wanting things to be neat. Almost like assigning the term to something so trivial illegitimizes it. Even worse is when people call it OCD. Calling a baseline desire for cleanliness a disorder is just irksome. And I don't even have OCD! Perfectionism is barely even a branch of OCD, so I can only imagine how annoyed people with actual OCD must be.
I digress. As much as the anxiety sucks, there's always a small part of me that doesn't want to let go of the perfectionist in me. It's just such a huge part of who I am. When I first started working against my perfectionism and seeing results, I was kind of upset. A little nostalgic, I guess. It was like a piece of me died--a bad piece, yeah, but it was me nonetheless. But sometimes you need to just let go of the old to welcome in the new. Blegh. I'm so cliche.
Had a bit of an anxiety fit last night, which is what inspired me to write this. The anxiety fit wasn't perfection induced, but the feeling was the same. This was the first one I've had to deal with without my mom, so it was pretty bad. I got through it though, so I guess that means I'm growing up. Ugh blegh more cliche.
Feeling artsy and vintage in this outfit. Some quirky print mixing and the soft shape of my work shirt juxtaposed with the hard edges of my beret and patent-leather-look shoes really embody a chill, quasi bohemian chick who's actually extremely high strung.