It seems only fitting that I should write an essay on my perfectionism. I took this trait on when I was too young to know any better and I have never gotten a handle on the “why” of it.

Social situations are the hardest thing for me. I always feel inadequate, underprepared and anxious.

I keep this hidden, so I muddle along as best I can. My life is designed for privacy.

I feel the most secure when I have no social obligations. But as I begin to see this more clearly, I see that I am anxious most of the time.

As a rule, I feel best when things are under control. I am never messy or anything less than insecure about everything. This leads me to act impatiently and immaturely with myself and others.

My enduring interest in spirituality offers me solace, not other people.

Other people seem more confident than I do. I only had one good friend since getting married to Bob and when our little girl died, that friendship no longer worked. Why? Because she was so happy and I was so sad.

Now I have the tremor that makes everything harder and harder to do.

I feel guilty about not wanting a social life and there is no free will anyway.

I want this last sentence to be a freeing one for me:

You don’t have to be strong any longer.

Vicki Woodyard.