Being a Perfectionist is Hard, Being a Perfectionist with Chronic Pain is Heartbreaking

      The more you want to reach perfection the further away it seems to be. It’s the never ending struggle every perfectionist knows all too well.  The faster you run, the more you train, the longer the track becomes. That finish line shrinks into the distance and you’re left out of breath and unsatisfied. So you keep going. It’s hard, but it’s what you thrive on; that sweet feeling of reaching and surpassing others’ expectations but choosing to keep going for yourself. It’s how I grew up. Good and better were never enough for me. Best was just a titled waiting to get demoted to Better once I reached new heights. It didn’t feel like I was beating myself up or working harder than necessary because it was part of me. The stress, the extra push, and the occasional tears were all just normal. It never occurred to me that other people didn’t do the same thing. Life was just life – hard but satisfyingly so.

      And then things changed. December 2006, the most critical turning point in my life, and I hadn’t a clue. That was when I first was knocked off my ass by what we now refer to as Chronic Complex Migraines. From then on, life was hard but not in a satisfying sense. It was hard to sleep, hard to be awake and functioning, hard to read, hard to stand up, hard to be around lights or sounds or anything that would resemble the real world. Over the past ten years, I have continued to be a perfectionist. I want to be perfect. I want to be better than I can be. I want to inspire. Like before, I know ‘perfect’ isn’t attainable. Doesn’t mean my illogical self isn’t driven to attain it. I want all these things. I want to work hard to reach them. But I can’t. And it’s not even because they’re unattainable. It’s because I’m not enough.

      No, this is not a pity party. I’m not looking for validation or sad face emojis followed by supportive cheers and uplifting quotes. Please don’t leave those here, no matter how great the intentions may be. I just want to share my truth. It’s quite difficult to do because, as a perfectionist, I wear a mask. It shows everybody how I want to feel, how I plan on feeling once I reach that perfect status. I rarely take it off for straight up honest talk with anybody other than my mom and fiance, but I’m going to try to here. We can talk more about the mask another time. Back to the non-pity party.

      When I say I’m not enough, it’s because it’s the truth. It’s not self-pity. It’s not the depression that does indeed take over my mind and attitude here and there when the migraines get particularly intense. It’s a fact. I cannot put forth the effort I used to in my fight towards perfection. Instead, it’s aimed at getting out of bed when I can only see out of one eye. It helps me focus when I am so lightheaded I have to walk downstairs like a toddler, both feet stopping on each step before moving on to the next perilous platform below. It keeps me moving forward in the drug store while fluorescent lights make me nauseous and the sound of the squeaky wheel tortures me as I search for more futile over the counter drugs to tame the pain or ice packs to numb me into an ounce of contentment. The power I have from being a perfectionist is currently the only thing getting me through life. It’s been demoted from Best to Better.

      It’s how my body needs to cope at the moment. However, my mind doesn’t quite understand the lackluster performance its counterpart is presenting. My mind still thinks perfection isn’t that far away. Why slow down when the finish line is just around the corner?? My body is broken and my mind hates me for it.

      It started with school. I had to admit to myself that it was okay to get something below a 90% on tests or assignments. It was a blow to the ego more than anything, but it’s how it had to be. The fact that I actually made it to class sometimes had to be my new version of an A+. With the absences and falling grades, it’s no wonder why I still wake up in a panic, worried I never actually graduated high school.

      Next came friends. Thank God I had, and still have, friends I’ve known since preschool. I had a good thirteen or so years to create friendships, which kept the migraines that stole the entirety of this introvert’s little social life, from completely destroying them all. You probably didn’t see this coming, but I always wanted to be the best friend possible. Helping people is my passion, and that certainly is something I try to bring to my friendships. But it’s hard to be helpful or even just supportive when you’re 17 years old and haven’t seen your friends in two months. When you’re a teenager and you can’t handle going to a movie or bowling or a dance or concert because of all the migraine triggers out there, you end up not having much of a life. It’s not your fault for being unable to handle those things, and it’s not your friends’ faults for going on with their lives and doing things normal teenagers get to do, but it still hurts to not be included. This was the first time I truly learned to hate my migraines. Being a teenager is lonely. Being a teenager who can’t do almost anything everybody else can do leads to a lot of weekend tears.

      Luckily I was already a wreck by the time I reached college and never had to worry about the pressure of being a 4.0 student or making the Dean’s List. Please note the sarcasm. Yes, I was screwed up. Yes, I thought I could still have a perfect GPA after the mess I experienced in high school. No, I’m not crazy. Like I’ve said, I’m a perfectionist. Unfortunately, migraines don’t believe in the whole tabula rasa thing. Grades were never good in college. I had to start all of my student-professor relationships with, “Hi, I’m Laura. I am so excited for your class, but I have chronic migraines, and I’m not sure I’ll really be able to attend lectures frequently.” Professors love when you tell them you aren’t going to listen to the speak. Love it.

      Until December 2006, I considered myself an athlete. I’d had knee surgeries and injuries that required PT that took me out of games sometimes, and I was never a star on the court or field, but I played and I loved it. The learned skills, the fitness, and the team building fun made sports one of my passions. However, chronic pain does not afford you much time or energy for your passions. Sports and fitness slowly faded from my life. This one stung. At least with classes I could legitimately say I didn’t fail. I passed classes but with crappy grades. I failed at sports and my athletic part of life. Working out, even when I made sure to hydrate more than usual, led to worse migraines. I’d finish working out and my body would love it. My heart would love it. But my brain felt like it was about to burst out of my ears. The general throbbing and sharp pains above my eye and at the base of my skull along with the lightheadedness that I did everything in my power to ensure wasn’t from lack of water intake, kept me out of commission for at least twenty-four hours. It still kicks my ass, but not in the good way. It’s amazing to be sore after a good workout. It’s not so amazing to go home, fall into bed without even being able to take a shower, and cry for six hours.

      To go along with my inability to play the sports I’d always loved, migraines have added the wonderful world of pharmaceuticals to my life. I have been on literally – and I have a Master degree in Publishing and English, so I don’t use this word lightly – hundreds of medications. Abortives, preventatives, patches, personalized compounded drugs. My mom once showed me the bucket of bottles she had from my previous medications that she needed to take to a hazmat recycling day. We both cried a bit looking at it all. And probably swore. I haven’t found anything that helps yet. In good news, I’ve found something that may not be hurting. So, of course, a doctor put me on that. Can’t hurt to just go on meds and see what happens, right?! Yeah, tell me that after you start a new medication, gain 40 pounds, and keep the weight on for four years no matter any diet changes you try. I’ve always had issues with my weight. Looking back, I wish I had a time machine so I could slap some sense into my teenage self. I guess that was part of the perfectionist thing yet again. I didn’t feel fit. I never felt like I could even be close to pretty. It’s always been a sore spot, so the fact that now migraines have added to the problem and are keeping me from properly and successfully addressing it feels like life is laughing in my face. “Ha! You’re too busy having to find a way to function every day, so I’ll just add a few pounds to be sure you’re really aware of how terrible you’ve been at caring for your physical wellbeing.” Thanks.

      So now I’m here. Almost 27 years old and unable to hold down a job, let alone excel at one, because I’m too busy trying to hold down my own life. It is just what the title says. It’s heartbreaking. I think chronic pain is heartbreaking for anybody suffering with it, but to continually have that ‘what if’ in the back of your head… “What if you weren’t in pain? What if you could actually handle being a grown up? What if you didn’t have to spend so much time on what should be the little things?” That race to perfection is no longer a satisfying run that reminds me of my potential. It’s torture. And what’s worse than letting yourself down? Letting down somebody you love. I’ve always been a perfectionist for myself. It’s always been me that I’ve been trying to satisfy and make proud. Until now. Now I am getting ready to marry the love of my life, and all I can think about every single day is that I am not enough. Again, not for pity, but the truth. The truth I just wrote out. I am not enough to be even half of the best version of myself. Of course, he doesn’t expect perfection. But right now, even a somewhat healthier version of me feels like that out of reach perfection. Unattainable. All I want is to be physically, emotionally, and mentally strong enough to get better, but the effort needed to get through one day is probably incomprehensible to anybody who hasn’t lived with chronic pain, and I sincerely cannot imagine the effort and energy needed to do more than just survive. I want so badly to be enough. I want to be whole. And the fact that it is such a massive task to undertake breaks my heart every day.


Fight the Fear

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself” – FDR

It may seem simple, but the truth usually is. There is a destructive pattern stitched within our society called fear. It keeps us from making change, it keeps us from speaking up and speaking out, it keeps us from holding on to a cause after the media has decided it’s time for a new story to grace the headlines. Fear immobilizes as it grows, leaving us so much worse for the wear.

I do believe the only thing to fear is fear. It is the simple root of our complex problems. Fear breeds ignorance, hatred, anger, and violence. We don’t know how to be afraid, so we pretend we aren’t. We pretend the color of somebody’s skin doesn’t cause our heartbeat to increase or the way somebody dresses doesn’t make us choose another seat on the train. That’s not us. We’d never do that. That’s how the others act. We are better.


We are a society that feeds on buried fears. It festers inside of us until one day, years and years of assumptions and stereotypes take over rational – even just humane – thinking and we burst open with an anger so vast we are willing to kill.

It’s time to accept the fact that we are a weak society. Our potential is infinite. Our children have the grace and insight and humanity to love one another because of their differences, not in spite of them. Let’s not spoil that when we have a chance to let it continue. We do not need more hate. We need to shed the belief that we must be strong to become stronger together. We are not strong. We are broken, so very broken, and we are not going to mend without coming together. Let us be honest, let us be open. Tear down those self-righteous walls and help.

Snide remarks and drawn out arguments on social media that just lead to anger and resentment are what we do best, but they don’t help us do good. We need good, in the most intense way. Need is no small word. Fear is no small word. Yet we misuse them and take away their true significance. We glance over the words without thinking about what they mean and the value they hold. Don’t let this be the case here. Listen when I say,

We need to accept, confront, and conquer our fears. Not for ourselves. The monsters in the closet don’t keep us awake at night anymore. We are content in our ignorance. But one day our children will look in that same closet and see what we’ve blinded ourselves to. Do we let them follow us on the path to fear and shallow contentment, or do we beat back those monsters before our children ever set eyes on them?

A 4-year old little girl saw that monster when she watched her daddy die in the front seat of their car. She’s seen what we are capable of at our very worst. That is her truth now. We owe it to her and to all of those who haven’t learned to fear or hate yet to fight our battle together rather than ignore it. Fear needs to lose. We need to let fear lose. Set everything else aside and acknowledge your fears, our society’s fears. Fear’s strength is on our inability to look it in the eye. Stare it down. Talk to it. Embrace it. Overcome it.

What’s Left

It’s flattering to hear people remember,
sharing eulogies for my former self. She
will be greatly missed. So much she had
left to accomplish. Full of heart and drive.

Nine years later and being useless
has become second nature.
It’s what I do best, really. Disappointing
others who see the potential smothered
By a cancerous pain that dropped in
for a surprise visit and decided to stay.
If only this, if only that. If only.
Then I’d really be something.
    Somebody great.

And of course it’s not my fault she’s gone.
I should never feel guilty.
But survivor’s guilt can be paralyzing
When the victim was another side of you.

So as flattering as it is to know how much
I am missed, it is crushing to know what’s left
        Isn’t good enough.


Tangled sitting here, alone,
But tangled nonetheless,
In the chaos of you, of me,
Of what I’m supposed to be
Without you. Or am I
Supposed to be anything
Without you?

It’s an intertwining of spirit and soul,
Of lust and longing,
Something so physical it suggests
Something far beyond physicality.
Or emotion. Or spirituality.
A combination of what I need to be me
And what I want to be us.

Sitting here, a chair and me,
In the darkness, wrapped in everything
As potential feeds on possibilities
And possibilities drown out doubt.
Finding a way out by giving in
To the tangled web.

Reno to San Diego

I met you at the bus station,
bag in hand, ready to flee.
I met you there thinking
I was running away from life,
looking for a new start with all
new questions to answer.
I met you with my
grandmother’s wide brimmed hat
and a pocket of loose change
rattling on about the lust of adventure.
Sitting side by side on the bench,
watching the bus pull up.
I met you there.
But I left myself behind.

I Am Not Orlando

I’m sad. I’m angry. I’m so unbelievably confused. But I’m not Orlando.
I am not a member of the LGBTQ community who feels glares on her back when she holds her girlfriend’s hand in the grocery store. I’m not somebody who was born in a body that feels absolutely foreign to them. Nothing about my life – my love – is in danger of being taken away. I’ve never seen a day when my dreams of a family were impossible.
I’m not Muslim. I’ve never been feared or hated because of my faith in a higher power. People don’t choose to walk down a different aisle or sit at a different table because of the clothes I wear to respect and honor my religious beliefs. I don’t fear my child will be targeted one day because he looks vaguely similar to a hate-filled stranger strewn across national news outlets.
And I’m not a responsible, respectful gun owner. A mature adult who knows the power they possess in such a small machine, and adamantly believes in the right to protect himself and his family if, God forbid, it ever comes to that. I am not somebody who has grown up learning to be meticulously responsible only to have monsters destroy the hard work I’ve put into teaching others about the serious nature of guns, the education needed for properly carrying them, and the good intention behind most gun owners.
I am none of these things. To say I am is to diminish the hatred and misunderstanding they all experience in their own ways. I am a white American woman with more than her fair share of opportunities and rights. My life is good. Even at its worst, it’s been amazing. But it’s not enough. I see my friends and family get lumped into stereotypes with such intense generalized hatred it makes me sick. I’m going to have children someday. They may be LGBTQ or choose to follow Islam or defend their right to bear arms as Americans. Whatever the case may be, I cannot be content with the world in which we live.
I’m not hear to say, “I’m one of you, let me show my support.” I’m hear to say, “I’m not one of you, let me still show my support.” It’s not about being the same. It’s about being different. It’s about being different and respecting those differences, the history behind them, and the struggles they’ve endured as we live together in this one world we have.