“Progress, not perfection,” I remember hearing this in the Denzel Washington film, “The Equalizer.” It has stuck with me since and, while the thought is comforting, it is actually very hard for me to digest.
You see, I grew up a perfectionist. I’m still a bit of a perfectionist now. I am diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) and, for me, things always have to be aligned, uniform, even-numbered or divisible by two, and precise.
Anything less or more is unacceptable. So unacceptable, in fact, that it stresses me out and the stress manifests physically, either as hives or as swelling (sometimes red and itchy) or as an upset stomach or hyperacidity.
It sometimes feels like my brain is its own enemy, and this is most evident when I go through analysis paralysis. I can only liken the feeling to being petrified as it is demonstrated in “Harry Potter” where one turns into stone, unable to move.