I am a perfectionist. I need my life to be perfect. Perfectly ordered. Perfectly respected. Perfectly lived. I allow for no mistakes in my perfect world, not from others and definitely not from myself.
Living in my world is harsh, sometimes impossible. So I make up a lot of different realities in my universe. Except that they are not really realities. More of a construct of my imagination that I often take to be real.
Relationships within these made-up realities are perfect. I am a perfect little girl loved and admired by everyone whose lives I have touched, and I have touched many. The galaxies and the stars revolve around me, the world grinds to a halt without me.
I draw my strength and life-meaning from the love that others accord me. I live my life vicariously through what I believe are the expectations of those around me. My desire for perfection draws me into a spiraling circle.
Without the esteem of others, I am sometimes lost. Often, I am unable to live up to my own expectations. It is almost as if I would cease to exist if I don’t somehow fit within what I think others want me to be.
I should not pretend to be, someone whom I am not.