(Im)perfect Explained

I named my blog (Im)perfect because it identifies the black hole at the center of my OCD:  my need to feel perfect.  The OCD part of me wants desperately to be able to say "I'm perfect.  I'm the perfect wife, dog mom, employee, student, friend, daughter  etc."  But every day I fail.  It turns out that despite my best efforts, I am imperfect, flawed, fallible.  

The OCD (and my upbringing as a girl in protestant south Georgia) sets the impossibly high goal of perfection; I am obsessed with not making any mistakes, ever.  Then OCD also reminds me--over and over and over--that I fail.  That's the obsession and compulsion.  I don't turn light switches on and off; I don't wash my hands repeatedly; I don't even keep a particularly neat house, that is unless I'm expecting company.  

The obsession is perfection and the compulsion is to punish myself when I'm not.

If you have OCD, you're nodding your head.  You know the impossibly lonely and maddening feeling of being swept into a gyre of obsessions and compulsions.  If you don't have OCD, I'll give you an analogy.  Think back to a time when you have felt sheer panic.  Maybe it was the time you lost sight of your toddler in the mall or when you found out someone you love was in the hospital.  Your heart beats so hard you're sure everyone can see it jumping out of your chest; your hands sweat even though you're cold; your mind races and fears the worst without regard for logic or reason.  Now imagine feeling like that every time you can't explicitly remember locking your door, every time you walk into a public bathroom, every time you think you may sense an abnormality in your body.  That is OCD.  That hard, steady heartbeat; sick feeling in the pit of your stomach; disregard for logic because panic has taken over.  In a real crisis, friends and family rally around you, but with OCD you are isolated.  You are aware enough that your obsessions are unreasonable that you keep (most of) them to yourself.  Yet, holding them inside doesn't make them feel any less real.  

My specialty is remembering things I've done and said in the past, both immediate and distant, that may have been stupid, inappropriate, or embarrassing.  An instance will come to mind and my conscious gets a glimpse and panics.  The event, totally incompatible with the current identity I have constructed for myself, is horrifying. "How could I have done/said that?" I ask myself.  "How did I not know that was wrong/a mistake/something I'd regret?" I continue.  My mind's first instinct is to push the thought out, to ignore it or pretend it isn't there.  But then I feel guilty.  "Shouldn't I feel bad about it so I don't make that mistake again?  Shouldn't I feel guilty to punish myself for having made such a huge mistake?" my mind asks.  Then I beat myself up.  I tell myself how dumb or irresponsible I was.  I catastrophize.  I ask myself what if X had happened or what if Y tells everyone about that someday?  For example, I think back to the drunken parties I went to in high school.  I remember doing stupid things--of which I am sure there are pictures somewhere.  What about the stuff I don't remember doing?  Did I do something terrible and I don't remember it?  Did I do drugs and not remember because I was drunk?  Did I sleep with someone?  What if there are pictures or video of me doing something drunk and stupid and someone decides to put it on Facebook someday?  What would my husband think, my parents, my future children?  What if someone tries to blackmail me?  What would I do?  How would people react?  What would that do to my reputation and my identity?

Even with medication and therapy, as I write this my heart beats faster, I'm tapping my foot to expend some of the nervous energy, and my mind is speeding up and heading down the rabbit hole.  

Life is unpredictable and scary and unfair and cruel.  I'm not guaranteed a happy and peaceful life.  I have made mistakes and why shouldn't I expect them to come back to haunt me?  Why hasn't the universe punished me for all the stupid things I've done?  And what will I do when all my mistakes catch up with me?  Will the people I love still love me when they find out everything I've done wrong?  Will I be the same person when all my dirty laundry comes out?

These are the questions my mind tells me to ask myself every hour of every day of my life.  I'm my own worst enemy.

So I chose (Im)perfect because depending on how you choose to read it, it can mean "I'm perfect" or "Imperfect."  Every day I struggle to find a comfortable place between these two poles.  I am certainly imperfect in the sense that I make mistakes and am flawed.  But I also want to be happy with who I am.  I want to be and accept a perfect version of me, flaws and all.

I'm working on it.

--A

I'm not Anna Parker

Anna Parker isn't my real name.  Hey, at least I'm being honest about my dishonesty.  

If you stumbled upon my blog because you or someone you know lives with OCD you're probably familiar with the stigma that accompanies mental illness.  Crazy, unstable, dangerous, and psycho are all words that too often get huddled under the umbrella of "mental illness."  

I fume when I hear many of the gun control discussions that have followed the tragedies in Aurora, Colorado and Newtown, Connecticut.  Certainly mental illness played a role in both shootings; I refuse to believe a well person is capable of evil.  But as an educator, I hate to think that the long-overdue conversations about mental healthcare and gun control are getting confused with one another.  Amalgamating the two discussions will only result in more misconceptions.  I believe in gun control; I love The West Wing and Rachael Maddow.  If Congress passed a law banning all guns tomorrow, I'd have no dog in that fight.  But I'm uncomfortable with the thought of being distrusted and penalized because I happen to have a terrible fear of communicable diseases and misspellings in emails (among other things).

Mental illnesses, their manifestations, results, struggles, and realities are as numerous as the people who live with them.  Painting them with broad strokes is illogical.  (But who am I to lecture anyone about illogical fears!)  Much progress has been made in understanding mental health issues.  However, the fact remains that if I used my real name to write this blog it would come back to bite me.  The OCD part of me is deeply worried that it will haunt me despite my not-so-clever pseudonym.  

So for now I will remain anonymous.  I will share my life and my struggles but not my name.  

I'm looking forward to the journey.

--A