Self Image

The Pain of Perfectionism by Jean Lush

As difficult as it is to believe, perfectionists suffer from low self-esteem. In order to like themselves, they must be perfect. Unfortunately, they can’t be perfect, and this failing reinforces their low self-esteem. It’s a vicious circle.

She whizzed by me, walking as fast as her long legs would allow. “Good morning, Mrs. Lee,” I called. “I haven’t seen you for a few days.”

Doing an about-face, she darted toward me with a pressured stride. “I’ve been terribly busy from morning to night,” she said. “All Jack’s golf buddies and their wives are in town, and it’s my turn to entertain. Thank God I don’t have to do this very often!”

As she stopped to catch her breath, I said, “Your home and garden always look beautiful. I can’t imagine there would be much preparation for your company.”

Shocked, she retorted, “Oh my! There is so much work to be done. I’ve just finished giving the gardener precise directions on how to lay the fresh pea gravel in the paths. I’m sure I’ll have to rake the gravel just before our guests arrive.”

“But your garden always looks beautiful, with its lovely pink petunia borders.”

“It’s not perfect, by any means! You can see that all the petunias aren’t the exact same shade of pink. I wanted everything to match perfectly, but the greenhouse erred on my order this year. I would have refused to purchase these flowers, but they were the only pink petunias left in town, and I had to have something to put along the path for this weekend.”

“Oh, Mrs. Lee, your house looks beautiful, and I admire the way your whole family works with you to keep it so lovely.”

“Well, thank you, but I can’t stand here talking. The party is tomorrow, and I’m a nervous wreck. I hate the way these parties interfere with my routine.” Shaking her head she headed toward her house. “I’ve got to go. There’s laundry and ironing to do.”

“Couldn’t you hide the laundry until after the party?” I called. In total amazement, she peered at me, her eyes as big as quarters. “I could never do that! I can’t stand having soiled articles in my house. What if someone found them?”

I was just a young mother when I lived next door to Mrs. Lee, and I remember leaving that conversation feeling like a downright failure. At the time I had never heard the word perfectionist. I just thought she was a wonderful manager and housekeeper, and I wished my house looked as lovely as hers.

Mrs. Lee was meticulous about tiny details, always straining for excellence, but even her highest standards weren’t good enough. She always felt she had to be better. Not only was she worn out, but she was wearing out her husband and children, too. Whenever her sense of order was disturbed, they caught the flack.

It goes without saying that perfectionists are often angry people. They usually carry low-grade irritation inside, because nothing measures up to their expectations. They expect too much out of themselves, out of others and even out of God. It’s interesting to me that out of the ten personality types, perfectionists have the highest rate of depression.1

Sloppy people are sometimes happier. They don’t get so frustrated when things aren’t in complete order. Now I don’t advocate living in a pigpen, but perhaps we would enjoy life more if we weren’t so uptight about having everything spotless.

Deborah was a perfectionist housewife who worked part time and was involved in the women’s ministry at her church.

“I love all the things I do,” Deborah sighed, “but I’m not juggling the load well. Something is wrong with me. Plenty of my friends do more than me, and yet they’re calm and relaxed. I’m anything but calm. It’s like I have a knot in my throat all the time.”

After we explored her various responsibilities, I suggested that Deborah separate out the things that were of vital importance each day. She was to choose three areas that needed an A performance. If she listed ten priorities for the day, only the top three were to get an A performance. The other seven had to be given a B or C. I could tell she had trouble separating the urgent form the trivial.

“Make your bedroom look tidy in a few minutes, instead of fiddling around for thirty minutes doing everything perfectly,” I suggested. “Give yourself permission to do it quickly. Stop dead in your tracks when your ten minutes are up, and go on to the next thing on the list. If your bedroom gets a C for the day, don’t worry about it. It’s okay. Push your shoes and slippers into the closet and throw up the bedcovers in two full sweeps. Forget about tucking in everything. A C on your bedroom doesn’t matter when you have other important deadlines to meet. Leave the dishes in the dishwasher unwashed, and don’t vacuum before going to work. We are doing this to get you away from living to perfectionist extremes.”

I don’t think I gained her confidence very quickly, because she scoffed, “That’s awful. I will never stoop to such sloppy housekeeping!”

I tried to reason with her. “You have just told me that you are perpetually exhausted. You have also told me that you have important deadlines to meet at certain times of the month and on those days you have to be out of the house very early. You cannot assign A grades to every single task each day. If you do, you’re going to be a neurotic mess. You must learn to separate out the most important tasks.”

She reluctantly agreed to try the plan I offered and wrote out her schedule for the following day. At first she assigned too many B’s after her top three A tasks. Gradually she worked on accepting more C’s in the plan. When she came in the next week, I asked for every detail.

“As soon as I started sensing the knot in my throat, I talked to myself. Last night we entertained eight dinner guests, and I told myself I must not demand perfection in every part of the house. I let the basement stay as it was and told the children they had to keep the doors to their rooms closed. The kids’ toys were strewn all over the family room floor, so I closed it off, too. I vacuumed the house the day before and gave myself permission to leave the Hoover in the closet until after the party. I decided the dining room and kitchen would get the A grade for the evening, along with the meal I prepared.”

“Excellent!” I said. “But how did you feel about all the neglect?”

I smiled inside when I heard Deborah’s response.

“Jean, it was kind of weird. I really enjoyed the evening with our friends. I’ve never found entertaining pleasurable, because all the preparation wore me out. But last night was different. I actually had fun, and it was great to hear everyone rave about the stuffed chicken breasts.”

Then a strange thing happened that caught me totally off guard. With out warning, she shouted at the top of her voice, “Mother, I don’t have to be perfect anymore! I can’t please you, anyway! I refuse to feel guilty for not being what you have always pushed me to be!”

Deborah’s mother had been dead for several years