I am a perfectionist but take neither pride nor arrogance in the mindset that I cannot escape. While it serves as motivation to perform flawlessly, satisfaction is seldom attained.

I vividly recall the incident that brought out my perfectionist nature. In my early years, I lived in a house in Sunrise, Florida. It was there that I developed a great affinity for dinosaurs and everything that had to do with them. The vegetation that I could see far past my backyard of the undeveloped Everglades served as a mirage that mirrored prehistoric times. From the videos and movies I watched about the dinosaurs, I always had the suspicion that they still lurked in that mysterious foliage. My parents never condemned nor questioned my love for the ancient animals, as it was unusual that such a young child would have such an interest in a historical matter.

Having seen so much film about the once-dominant reptiles, I was never without a toy dinosaur in my possession. My curiosity pushed me to collect all of the prehistoric species, to sort them incredibly meticulously, and to line them up precisely along the threshold to my bedroom.

The marble rectangle that separated my doorway from the hallway served as the perfect place to arrange my dinosaurs. I would spend hours trying line up the little figures by color, by height, by type, but would rarely complete my task as I felt the need to start over from scratch had once of the dinosaurs been out of line or incorrectly spaced, even in the most miniscule of ways. Frustration would overwhelm my small body, but I knew no other method to the project that I was trying to complete. Though at the time I did not understand why I expected my lines, spaces, arrangements, and patterns to be perfect, that was the way that I believed it had to be. The lines eventually spread into everything I attempted to do, such as drawing. I realized my gift of art at a rather young age, but have little evidence to show for it because every attempt that did not exactly resemble the attempted picture was discarded. Perfectionism had become my way of thinking.

Middle school brought the most drastic change to my way of thinking. Now in the world of letter grades, essays, and projects that stretched beyond the infamous science fair, I could not accept anything less than perfect scores, perfect writings, perfect everything! I would spend hours upon hours each night working on homework, desperate to grasp every concept, without skipping any questions that I did not understand. It was then that I came to the realization of how my mind worked and understood why even the simplest task would be converted into a painstaking process trying to do it perfectly.

But I am not a regretful perfectionist. I am not sorry for spending so much time on homework, or for making sure that everything I do meets the almost unattainable standards that I set for myself, for those efforts have proven to benefit me. My parents never pushed me to be perfect in school, they always would say to me, “Just try your best, there is nothing more you can give than your best efforts,” but trying my best is trying to be perfect.

Though I am not resentful, my perfectionism can be very strenuous as my own mind is always working against me. Just when I think something as complete, I find an error that needs to be fixed. When I see something as adequate, I search for something to be improved. It is a tireless cycle of reevaluation and correction that is just inevitable. I sometimes try to tell myself, “Just be done, your work is good enough,” or simply finish my assignment with a quick lookover, then put it away for the night.

Despite the tireless efforts that come with such a mindset, I wouldn’t give up my perfectionism if I were given the opportunity. I feel as if my way of thinking has given me an advantage over some of my peers as I constantly try to be the ideal student, or the author of the paper that my teachers desires to keep as a demonstration. Those who do not have such a drive limit themselves to far-from-perfect ideas and expectations, something that is unappealing to me. I do not condemn those in the slightest bit, but I believe that potentials are only in place to be exceeded.

Sometimes the tables are turned. Many of my colleagues have a substantial amount of free time to do whatever they choose, and I often envy that, for I spend most of my time working academically, trying to weed out whatever I can possibly think of. I acknowledge the fact that I am not the only one in this situation, nor do I intend to evoke pity, but I do feel isolated from my hobbies and leisure activities. I view pastimes such as watching television as a reward rather than a part of my nightly routine, which has been a very evident effect of being a perfectionist. It is ironic to think that free time is where my perfectionism developed, and sometimes I wish lining up dinosaurs is the greatest of my concerns like it used to be.

From time to time, I am free from perfectionism, with no desire to be the best, no yearn to improve, and no want to work. In those moments, few and far between, when I am in such a state, I am just a human. Taking a step back and just listening is when I am not a perfectionist. Everyone is equal as a person. We all breathe the same air, we all have the same components to our bodies, it is our minds that separate us, and sometimes, it is just nice to forget that for a little while.

I often feel as if I am part of an experiment on an extreme scale. Testing different types of minds and how they progress and change over time, how they prosper of fail against other minds, and even how the minds work. I know I am not the first perfectionist on this earth, and I will surely not be the last. I am part of a great test, and somewhere, the great scientist sits collecting and reviewing data that he has collected over history, figuring how I will influence his results.