Perfectionist Rehab

Premeditation can be defined as the act of planning before participating in some form of immoral activity; this term is most frequently used to describe the calculated efforts leading up to a crime.

My foster mother often accused me of premeditation – she felt that everything I did was calculated, intentional, and above all else – callous. She believed with every fiber of her being that if I ever caused another person discomfort, it was intentional – that I ruminated over exactly how I wanted to make another person hurt, and when then carry out the task maniacally until I received the reaction I was looking for.

I wish I was a person who was able to plan their actions, orchestrate their lives in which they actively participate in every step of the way until they achieve the results for which they are looking. To live with such intentionality that I know what’s coming next because I have already accommodated for the possible reactions of another – so thorough in my pursuits that nothing ever surprised me.

I have not cultivated this gift.

I’m quite impulsive – I live my life by the seat of my pants. I wait for my body to send me signals – ‘Hell yes!’ or ‘Hell no!’. I thrive on intuitively selecting my paths; I have stumbled upon every achievement I have ever made. I have accidentally accomplished goals I never knew I had. I’ve entered fields of study and a career I didn’t know existed. Nothing about me is conscious in the way I have been described – and perhaps that is most infuriating.

I have achieved everything through dumb luck.

I’m not convinced I deserved it.

Anything I’ve achieved was through my plucky can-do attitude, a self-depreciative smile, and well-timed nepotism.

I’ve been given the gift of words – the gift of gab some might say, bullshit artistry others concluded. However, for whatever reason, my words have always been best suited to pen and paper than my actual vocalization. I overthink as I speak and am not nearly as eloquent as I might come across.

Writing allows me time – to redact, amend, scrub, and annotate as necessary. I can massage language until my point is clear, and I can step away for however long is necessary for my point to materialize. I am not a scintillating conversationalist, and my effervescent personality often overshadows my contemplative nature.

Despite this gift of articulation, I’m still never sure of what to write. Comically, I’ve filled several notebooks with variations of:

“I have no idea what to write.”

“This is stupid.”

“What am I supposed to be writing?”

“I have no idea what the hell to say.”

“What is the point of having a gift and no viewpoint to express?”

I’ve written absolute anthologies on this fixation. My self-loathing often prevents me from creating due to my own perfectionism, and this fixation is yet another manifestation of it. My ego deeply believes that I should only create if I have some perfect vision – with a perfect outline, perfect plan, perfect point, and its harmonious execution that exactly describes what I mean.

I have begun to realize that nothing is ever perfectly planned out – especially with writing. Authors of different genres have all discussed this magnificent metamorphosis our ideas undergo throughout the creative process. Our inspiration strikes, we have a general idea, and then we get pen to paper. As we scribble away, if we’re lucky, the inspiration takes off, and we are left in amazement as the story takes life. We begin to watch the story come out of us because it was always meant to be told. Forcing oneself to write is all well and good – but when a story exists within ourselves it will force its way out.

Storytelling is one of the best parts of human existence – we all define ourselves through the stories we consume. Our music, television, movies, books, comics, podcasts, technical instructions, personal relationships, and inner monologues can all be reduced to one thing: stories. Stories we have consumed to gain a different perspective or new knowledge, stories we have consumed due to similarities (particularly to our own suffering), stories to distract ourselves from the minutia of daily life, stories to distract ourselves from our suffering, and stories we have told to rationalize our bad behavior. It’s all the same, and it all has just as much meaning.

These narratives are the most important part of us – you can tell an awful lot about a person based upon what stories they favor.

When my own stories are well executed and satisfy my inner judgments, I forget the world. I am in my own creative universe – a place where I can communicate without someone telling me to stop talking. A place where my thoughts matter. Somewhere where I am not an imposition – and this is healing for me. Perhaps one day I will let someone read these drafts but for now, they are hidden inside of a word processor with no one to discredit them. In my own little writing den – I am free.

What if having gifts that we don’t execute is something akin to like the sin of Onan – we’re just wasting talent and hindering creation. In the book of Genesis, Onan was commanded by his father to lie with his brother’s wife for reproductive purposes. Onan then “spilled his seed on the ground whenever he went in” because the “offspring would not be his”. The Book of Genesis goes on to state that God slew Onan in retribution for such an unforgiveable sin. Since semen is as creative an ingredient as any other, would it also not be ‘sinful’ to waste our material?

How many writers do I know that don’t write?

How many painters don’t paint?

How many carpenters don’t build?

It’s ludicrous that we all have these capacities, hobbies, interests, and passions eroded from us through senescence.

“What do you mean you’re still doing (insert hobby, interest, passion here)?”

“You aren’t a little kid anymore.”

“You really should be more realistic. You’ve always had your head in the clouds.”

“You should settle down. It’s time to become serious.”

“You can (insert hobby, interest, passion here) in your spare time, but it’s time to grow up”.

Yet our jobs completely erode our motivation to create. After spending forty to seventy hours a week in an office with people that really don’t see us as people, then we have to find time to eat, clean ourselves, clean our living environment, attend appointments, and go outside.