I’ve been blocking really hard for days now on getting a new blog post written. Unsurprisingly, it’s because I feel like whatever I write has to be absolutely wonderful. So I’ve decided I’m going to post something tonight before I go to sleep. It feels like there’s a rock in my gut as I sit here and type, but here we go. I hope you all like it. Heck, I hope I like it.

I’ve been pondering why it is that I always feel as though I have to meet a higher standard than anyone else. How did that requirement sink in? What, in my genetic makeup or my upbringing, makes me feel like I must be flawless in everything I do, to the point that I’m often so paralyzed I can’t even start?

I may have gotten some fresh insight into this. I’m currently in an extended phase of physical decluttering at my house, and yesterday I unearthed a bag of stuff my parents had sent me a few years back when they were decluttering. I’d tossed it in a “things to deal with later” box and forgotten about it.

Now here it was again. I opened it up to find a pair of my baby shoes, a baby book with entries by my mother, and an assortment of old report cards, poems I’d written, plus a couple of clippings of myself in the local paper. Curious, I started flipping through the baby book. There were pictures, a few locks of my hair taken at different times, and glowing entries about how cute I was. Then, as I read about myself getting older, I noticed an interesting pattern.

First medical examination: “She was so good and didn’t even cry.” Six months old:”Such a good girl!” And more through the first years of my life, in my mother’s handwriting: “Her nursery school teacher is continually astounded.” “Michelle is a really good girl.” “At a fifth-grade reading level already.” “A teacher’s dream.” “Michelle is still a very good girl.” (As if they were poised for me to become something else?)

Then an undated entry under “Likes and Dislikes” (about school) reads, “Michelle loves to learn. She seems to expect perfection from herself and others.”

Many people develop a sense of perfectionism because they are taught to feel inadequate from early childhood, and the only way they think they can be worthy of love is to strive (or at least appear) to be flawless. That was never my problem. Nope—I was always being told how smart, creative, wonderful, artistic, and ahead of my peers I was. You’d think this would be absolutely fantastic for a young child to hear, wouldn’t you?

In many ways it was. I’ve always had a lot of self-confidence, and I’m very grateful to my parents for instilling that in me. But it certainly set the bar high.

I clearly remember my parents telling me that they would be proud of me no matter how I did in school as long as I tried my best…but that they were very glad I always brought home As and Bs. College, they continued, was very expensive, and it would help a whole lot if my grades were good enough to earn some kind of scholarship.

This was when I was about 10 years old.

I don’t blame my parents for pushing me—they were honestly doing what they felt was best, and I certainly never balked. I was one of those geeky kids who really did love school. Why? Well, I truly did love learning things. But I also liked all the ego strokes I got for being such a good student. Who wouldn’t enjoy all that praise?

So I must have become terrified of not getting it anymore. I became a people-pleaser. First my parents and my teachers. Then anyone in authority (religious leaders, college professors, employers), and friends who might take away their approval and acceptance of me if I failed to be the person I thought they wanted me to be.

I created a series of costumes to wear in different situations. They don’t completely cover me—I wear them so that just enough of me peeks out to give my appearance a stamp of originality. The zany sense of humor. The jaunty confidence and outgoing nature that so often hide the yearning places and the sadness in my heart. The tightening of the mouth that I can’t allow to reveal what I want and need, because that might not be acceptable. And then people might not like me anymore.

Underneath it all, there’s still the little girl who so desperately wants to be included in the hopscotch games at recess not because she’s smart or creative or a good little girl, but simply because she’s herself.

I think I need to find out some more about who she is.

Tags: childhood, self-acceptance, self-worth

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