More Than Enough, But Never Feeling It
October 18th, 2023 at 11:17 AM
I never told anyone this, but my perfectionism didn't start with wanting to be the best - it started because I was terrified of being seen as the worst. Funny how being the dyslexic kid who was somehow good at advanced math turns you into this walking contradiction. Every time I aced a test, I was proving people wrong, but each perfect score became another brick in this invisible shield I was building against anyone who might question whether I belonged there.
I got really good at hiding my dyslexia. Like, scary good. I'd stay up reading and re-reading paragraphs, memorizing them just in case I was called on in class. The thought of being asked to read aloud kept me up at night. I'd study twice as hard, stay up late memorizing everything, just so no one could ever point at my grades and say "but isn't that too challenging for someone with your... condition?" Or worse, "disability?" God, I hated those words. Like I was somehow broken, like my brain being wired differently made me less capable.
Each A wasn't just a letter; it was a middle finger to everyone who ever doubted whether someone like me could handle advanced coursework. When I entered college, I took on 21 credits of pure engineering classes in one semester - not because I needed to graduate or even wanted to learn more. It was this desperate need to prove that not only could I keep up - I could excel beyond what most engineering students attempted, dyslexia or not.
The cost? My body keeps the receipts. Headaches became such a normal part of my day that I started lying to myself, blaming my constant nausea on bad food instead of stress. I skipped meals because eating felt like wasting time. Sleep? That's what weekends were for (except not really, because there was always more to prove, more to perfect).
Sometimes I catch myself staring at my old notebooks with every note meticulously organized. Not because I'm naturally organized (I'm really not), but because I couldn't risk anyone seeing a messy page and connecting it to my dyslexia. Who would even make that connection? But anxiety isn't rational, and I was terrified my secret would get out. One slip, one mistake, and someone might say "See? This is too much for you." So I built this perfect facade, unintentional at first, brick by brick, straight A by straight A.
The cruel joke? In trying to prove I was enough - more than enough - I created this impossible standard that guaranteed I'd never feel like I was enough at all. Perfect grades couldn't fix what I was really afraid of - that deep down, maybe they were right. Maybe I didn't belong. Maybe I was just really good at faking it.
I'm starting to realize something though. All those years of hiding, of proving, of perfectionism - they taught me how to survive, but at what cost? I'm exhausted from maintaining these walls. From being the exception to every rule about what people with dyslexia can achieve. From turning every achievement into a weapon against doubt rather than a celebration of growth.
Maybe it's time to put down some of this weight. To understand that being perfect was never about survival - it was about belonging. And perhaps true belonging doesn't require perfection at all. Maybe it starts with being honest about who I am, learning disabilities and all.
But old habits die hard, you know? Even writing this, I've reread it about twenty times, checking for mistakes. Because somewhere deep down, that scared kid who learned to be perfect to be accepted is still there, still wondering if being just myself will ever be enough.
SK
