I had a mind-bending existential experience yesterday. I attend University where I am doing a psychology degree. When I received my latest assignment instead of a high distinction I was expecting – I only got a credit. I was nearly in tears.

For most people that would be an acceptable mark. According to my lecturer it was a very good mark as a lot of people fail this particular assignment. But that’s not good enough for me. It’s hard to be average when you have obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Back in the early 1990’s when I had my first baby, I would breast-feed my daughter with most of my mind on housework I hadn’t finished, on the garden bed that wasn’t quite up to scratch and on the furniture and ornaments we couldn’t afford to buy at that particular moment. I had to get a high distinction in house-keeping and motherhood every day.

I envied my friends who were able to just focus on breast and baby, ignoring the mess around them, and zone into those magical bonding and attachment moments. I was always too anxious and guilt-ridden over my perceived slackness as a human being in general and a new mother in particular.

By the time I had three children I was overwhelmed by life in general. I remember one evening my parents had visited and were leaving and my husband was going out and I cried because I couldn’t cope with a newborn, a toddler and a three year old. I was shaking and begging everyone not to leave, but they did. No-one quite grasped the gravity of the situation. Eight months after I ended up in hospital where the staff realised it wasn’t just the initial diagnosis of depression and anxiety I was suffering; because I had to have my hospital room immaculate at all times, they cottoned onto the fact OCD was probably an issue as well.

About ten years into my thirteen years of therapy I slowly conceded that perfectionism is a disorder of the mind. With my therapist facilitating the enabling head-space I only did the basics in housework and gardening (and sometimes motherhood as well) to establish a writing career. While I never felt my writing was quite as good as others I wrote two books and both were published by mainstream Australian media. But, in the tradition of Groucho Marx, I was always of the irrational thought that I wouldn’t want to be published by a company that would publish my books. But if I had waited to write the perfect book before sending off the manuscript it would never have happened. That’s what editors are for. It was through the collaboration of several people that I was able to call myself a published author.

That was when I learned to breathe deeply, reflect and introspect through the lounge-room window, rather than a glass darkly, to simply admire the big picture of my garden rather than focus on the weeds and leaves in my lawn. Just accepting and appreciating their simplistic beauty instead of mentally pulling them out or sweeping them up, was an exercise in how to handle the rest of my life.

I’ve heard University students say, “I am not my mark.” But I think I am my mark. Like most people I am average with moments of high distinction. And that is now good enough for me.

PS – If I waited until I wrote the perfect blog, you wouldn’t be reading this right now.

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Prof.Lakshman (May 27, 2009)

From Psych Central's website:
PsychCentral (May 27, 2009)

    Last reviewed: 26 May 2009