Where do I start to dehoard? pt 3 Perfectionism

Back in January of 2010, when I saw that first episode of Hoarders,  I was scared to death. I knew things were going to have to change, and that I needed to accept responsibility for my part in the mess getting to this level. It wasn't easy. I was embarrassed. Humiliated. Discouraged. 

But I was also hopeful, because I knew that I'd made that first gargantuan step. I recognized that I had a problem. I knew I had a lot of work ahead of me, but I also knew that I could do it. 

I realized that I'd hidden for years behind excuses. Some excuses were legitimate, (the girls demanded much more of my time and attention and energy than a typical child ever would, and it was bound to affect my life), but some of the excuses were just that. Excuses. 

I don't think I actually set out to make it impossible for Hubster or Bugster to meet my expectations in order to blame them for the mess, but blame them I did. Yet my perfectionism played such a major role in the whole thing. I made it nearly impossible for their efforts to be good enough.

I wanted them to do things like I would do them, if I had the time to keep up with things myself. The towels need to be folded lengthwise in thirds and then in fourths, because it made it easier to just get just one when we grabbed one out of the linen closet. Laundry needed to be 'fluffed and hung' just so, so it could hang dry without wrinkles, shrinkage or fading. Dishes need to be loaded perfectly within the confines of the dishwasher but only after they'd basically been washed free of everything before loading them.

On more than one occasion, Hubster said he felt like he had to walk on eggshells around me, because I seemed more concerned about either he or Bugster getting things done right, rather than being happy with the fact that they were trying to help. Eventually, he and Bugster just stopped helping. Why even bother when all I could see was that they hadn't done something up to my standards?

In spite of the fact that I hated the perfectionism trait I carried around with me everywhere I went, it didn't just go away on it's own. In fact, I can't seem to shake it no matter how hard I try. It's here to stay, but I've worked really hard at minimizing it as much as possible.

I've tried to consciously be aware of when my perfectionistic tendencies take over and instead allow for things not to be perfect. If Hopper folds towels for me and puts them away, I don't refold them. I leave them in the linen closet in the same condition they were in when she put them with the other towels. There are times it's a real struggle, and I feel like I'm in a physical fight with myself to leave things alone. Occasionally, I do have to rearrange the kitchen towels, so they'll fit in the drawer, but I do try to just leave them, if I can.

If Hubster happens to do a load of clothes and doesn't get the wrinkles out of the clothes before they're hung to dry, I do my best to wear the clothes wrinkled. It's obviously a lot easier to do this, if they're clothes I usually just wear around the house, but even that can be hard at times. If a load of clothes I don't normally dry in the dryer go through the cycle, I try to shrug it off. It isn't necessary to do everything right all the time.

And when I'm writing a post for my blog, I sometimes don't proofread and correct the mistakes that are bound to be there. Sometimes, I go back and fix mistakes I see at a later date, and other times, I try to leave the mistake there for a few days, so I expose myself to the imperfection. 

There are times that each of these seemingly simple things are monumentally difficult for me.

But I've found that nothing bad happens, if the towels aren't folded just so. The world doesn't come to an end, if I don't fix a mistake on the blog. And shockingly, I don't explode, if I wear a wrinkled t-shirt. 

Life. goes. on.

I struggle with perfectionism on a daily basis, and I will likely grapple with it for the rest of my life. 

But I am determined not to let it rule me. 

I want to live.

How do I know, if I'm a hoarder? Pt 3 - Perfectionism

I'm a perfectionist. You may not know it by looking at my home, but I am. In fact, I've been working on this post for 4 days now trying to get my thoughts into words. Trying to make it perfect.

Once again, I think I'm trying too hard.

Growing up, we were taught to do the best we could at anything we attempted. To give it our all. If you do your best, you can take pride in your work. You can be proud knowing you gave it your all, and your effort will be rewarded. 


You know the old adage... If you can't do something right, don't do it at all. 

When I was a kid, I thought that meant I had to be perfect. And when I wasn't perfect, when I didn't get something right, it meant that I was wrong. And I equated 'wrong' with 'naughty'. With failure.


My parents wanted me to apply myself, and rightfully so. Kids should apply themselves. Thankfully, my parents were not stage parents who pushed and pushed wanting me to be perfect. I was the one who wanted to be perfect, and I made things so much harder on myself as a result.


Even though I got good grades in school, I would be so disappointed when the grade on my paper was less than an A-. When I would get a B+, I always chided myself for, if I had only applied myself a smidgen more, I could have gotten an A. Disappointment doesn't describe what I felt, if I got a C on a paper. I was traumatized. Report cards were even harder to handle, because I could never quite get straight A's. I'd get all A's and 1 B one quarter and the next I'd have brought the B up to an A while in a different class my grade slipped to a B. It was maddening and disheartening.


School wasn't the only area where I had perfectionism issues. I didn't like art, because I couldn't seem to draw or paint anything that resembled what it was supposed to. As much as I loved to sing, I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket with the lid duct taped on tight, if my life depended on it. So I didn't sing where anyone could hear me.


Shortly before Bugster was born, we bought my sewing machine. I loved it, but I was so afraid of making a mistake and having my project not look good that it took me months to sew the only baby outfit I ever made. I made plenty of baby blankets and curtains and the diaper bag and bumper pads, but they were fairly easy things to sew. They were straight lines for the most part. Plus they stayed in the nursery. If I messed up on a baby outfit, people would see it when she wore the clothes. People would be able to see my mistakes, so I just never made clothes.


The list goes on and on. 


It carried over into my life as a mother. I needed to be a perfect mother. It felt so personal when one of the babies cried. I just knew that it was, because they didn't love me, because I wasn't a good mother. I would be so embarrassed, if one of them spit up on their new clothes. I mean, if I was a good mom, they wouldn't get their clothes dirty, because I would have kept them from getting sick.


By the time life became so overwhelming with hospitalizations and the different medical needs the girls had, I was exhausted. Not only couldn't I get ahead on the laundry and housekeeping, I couldn't keep up on the daily stuff. It didn't matter that what I was going through as a mom was not typical, and that the only way for anyone to really keep up with what I had going on was to have extra help. I felt very, very imperfect.


In the meantime, I still had to make sure the clothes were all folded and put away without wrinkles. (Wrinkled clothes have always made me feel like a failure). The towels and sheets had to be folded exactly the same way each and every time. The dishwasher needed to be loaded, but it didn't get the dishes clean, so I had to pre-wash all the dishes before they went in the machine. 


When I started getting so overwhelmed I couldn't keep up I stopped trying. I started living the, 'If you can't do something right, don't do it at all' to the fullest, because I didn't know how to do it any other way. As a result, all sorts of stuff piled up. Papers didn't get filed. Clothes didn't get sorted out of the main laundry when the girls outgrew them. Forget about getting the clothes sorted. I couldn't even keep up with keeping them clean. Dishes didn't get done in a timely manner, if I didn't have time to wash them all before the dishwasher was run.


I couldn't do it. I was a bundle of nerves, and depressed enough that I struggled with daily life.


And once again, I was a failure.