In Pursuit of Perfection: The Sickness

Should.
That little six-letter word holds great power over me.

I can’t remember exactly when my obsession with perfection began, but since I’m a firstborn, it was probably sometime in utero. I do remember that, even as a kid, the first thing I’d do with my pile of Christmas loot was hurry to my room so I could put everything where it belonged. I should put everything away. I was no scholar in junior high, but once I cracked the code of how to study in high school and college, I became hooked on the high of seeing 100% on everything. I should study to get A’s. And that was just the beginning.

As a teacher, I should do hours of research for questions no one will ask. As a pregnant mom, I should read a dozen book on natural birth and implement their every suggestion. As a new mom, I should find the very best way to feed and entertain  my baby. I should finish reading books that don’t interest me, spend 10 minutes brushing and flossing my teeth every night, make organic food from scratch, take on projects that will be too much for me, clean the house when I want to read, balance the budget when I want to rest, and write a blog post when I need to sleep. (Oops.) Now, there are certain pockets of chaos that I choose not to tame (hello, junk food), so I guess that makes me a selective perfectionist. But in general, if there’s a good, better, and best way of doing something, I feel obligated to choose the “best” and shun the rest.

Basically, I’m a “best practices” junkie. 

Sorry, Not Sorry

Yet even as I list those examples, I don’t feel ashamed. Instead, I feel pretty good about myself. What I had intended as confession has bordered on boasting. That’s why words like “perfectionist” and “workaholic” are slippery little buggers. When we use them to describe ourselves, we hope we’re coming across as self-deprecating. “Oh, I guess I’m just a workaholic. Yah, I tend to be a perfectionist.” But we put such a thin coat of shame over those admissions that the neon paint of pride bleeds through loud and clear. We say we have a problem, but our lips are tingling with the toot of our own horns.

All right, so we’re perfectionists, and we’re proud of it. What’s so bad about that? That’s the question I’d been asking myself, but only recently did I find a plausible rebuttal. To be honest, it’s also a convicting rebuttal. That’s why my desire to discuss the humorous struggles of perfectionism morphed into a three-week examination of the deeper issue. And the deeper issue boiled down to this: if my pursuit of perfection is a good thing, then why is my heart so restless?

Behind the Façade

As a selective perfectionist (::smiles smugly while polishing various medals for being selectively perfect::), I can attest to the fact that there’s no peace in this pursuit. Oh, sure, there’s the temporary satisfaction that comes from organizing things, finishing a task, and scratching jobs off of a to-do list. It’s cathartic, really.

But even as I bask in completion, the niggling questions begin. What about the rest of the list? What about tomorrow? What about the things you can’t organize? What about the things you finished but know you should have done better? I live to the soundtrack of Inner Condemnation’s Greatest Hits: “If Only I Had Planned Better,” “I Should Have Tried Harder,” and “Why Didn’t I Research This?” Catchy, aren’t they?

Here’s the Rub

The reason my mind plays those depressing little jingles on repeat is that, deep down, I know this lifestyle offers no peace for me. The harder I flap my wings toward perfection, the more they begin to melt. (It’s not that I’m getting too close, mind you…it’s just the friction.) This is going to be a problem. But you, clever reader, knew the problem before I even began waxing eloquent, didn’t you? The problem is that perfection isn’t achievable on earth. Even countless hours of preparation and labor never guarantee the desired outcome. In a fallen world, I can toil all day long, but it won’t make the tiniest dent in the disorder. Chaos rages onward despite my most concerted efforts, a tsunami against a cocktail umbrella.

So if I work hard but never get the payoff I want, then what’s driving me to continually chase this carrot? That question drove me to pray, which is always risky if I don’t actually want to get a glimpse inside my heart. As I prayed, God began to reveal that my desire isn’t actually for perfection after all; my deeper desire, it seems, is for approval, identity, and rest.

The Big Three

Approval, identity, and rest. Those are pretty basic human needs. I mean, they’re not quite on the same plane as food, water, and oxygen, but as soon as we have those needs met, we find that we have leisure to start scrounging around for validation. So if these are universal human needs, then they should be easy to satisfy, right? Wrong.

My break-neck quest for these very good things keeps throwing me like a crash test dummy against the brick wall of reality. And the reality is that no matter how long and how hard I try, I’ll never manage to extract approval, identity, or rest out of my work. It’s like trying to squeeze orange juice from an acorn; it’s just not in there. So while work is a blessing and a noble calling (work was around even before Adam and Eve sinned, you know), it can never give me approval, identity, or rest. Those are three needs I can never meet on my own.

The Good News

Now, if that were the last word on the subject, I would despair. If our work (or play or individuality or apathy) can never gain us sufficient approval, unchanging identity, or lasting rest, then what’s the point? This is why plenty of people think, “Let’s eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die.” Or, in slightly-less-outdated vernacular, “YOLO.” But you, clever reader, have surely noticed the qualifying statement—I said I can’t meet these needs on my own. It’s not within me. But does that mean it isn’t anywhere at all? No. Hallelujah, no!

In an analogy that C.S. Lewis is fond of using, he points out that “…creatures are not born with desires unless satisfaction for those desires exists. A baby feels hunger: well, there is such a thing as food.” Does that mean everyone will find satisfaction for their desires? No, not if they’re looking in the wrong places. My baby has eaten bits of paper, cardboard, and sticks. It must be fun, but it’s not filling. Desire doesn’t guarantee satisfaction.

So how is this good news? Lewis continues, “If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world. If none of my earthly pleasures satisfy it, that does not prove that the universe is a fraud. Probably earthly pleasures were never meant to satisfy it, but only to arouse it, to suggest the real thing.”¹

Aha! Good news at last! My need for approval, identity, and rest can be satisfied! But where and how I must save for next time, I’m afraid. Forgive me for yet another cliff-hanger, but when compared with an ultra-long post, it seemed the lesser of two evils. For now, take heart in the fact that there are answers. And then, my perfectionistic friend, take a nap.

In case you missed last week’s post, check it out here! It’s just the encouragement you need after a weighty post like this.

And be sure to read the next post here!

¹ C.S. Lewis Quote from Mere Christianity: https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/462154-the-christian-says-creatures-are-not-born-with-desires-unless