Dear, Whoever

W Y A T T

I suffer from this thing I like to call Toxic perfectionism.

In the sixth grade, I had a mental breakdown in the middle of our exams because I convinced myself I wouldn't have enough time finish, and would ultimately result in me failing the class; that was when the slow downward spiral to my toxic perfectionism began.

In the seventh grade, I spent more than 70 hours working on an osteology project complete with hand-sculpted figurines and three different sets of flashcards for the class. The project shocked my teacher so much that she advised my mom to allow me to skip a grade hoping it would give me more of a challenge thinking the reason I did so much extra work was that I was bored and needed more of a challenge but in reality skipping a grade only made things worse. I felt the need to go above and beyond to prove that I deserved to be in a class filled with upperclassmen.

In the ninth grade, I became aware of my body and how imperfect it was. It became another obstacle to conquer I needed to be just like all the other girls in school, pretty. But the thing with my disorder is I couldn't just be "pretty" I had to be the prettiest and even though I knew I never stood a chance against half the girls in my school my disorder told me otherwise.

I systematically starved myself until my hair fell out; I needed to feel empty to feel pretty. I never felt good enough, smart enough, pretty enough, enough. Somewhere around my sophomore year things were starting to get really bad. I had a hard time trying to maintain my status on the social pyramid and keeping my grades at the top of my class so I cut out sleep from my routine altogether and ended up passing out behind the wheel on my way to school one day. I was lucky enough to only end up with a few bruises but after I visited the hospital they realized I was 20 pounds underweight and needed some serious help. The doctors recommended I go stay in a group home where I could be monitored but the small town of Briarwood didn't offer anything like that so my parents did what they thought was best and sent me to live with my grandparents.

I wish I could say moving away only did me harm but it was honestly the best thing to ever happen to my life. My grandparents live in a small neighborhood in a huge two-story Victorian home that's been around for decades. They were notorious for throwing parties so naturally when I arrived they held a welcome party for me. I wanted to object but as soon as I walked through the front door people welcomed me to town claiming they'd heard so much about me.

I met just about everyone in town that night with my grandma holding my hand the entire time. It felt nice to have someone have my back and pull me away when conversations started to stray.

"I know this may be overwhelming but your granddad refused to have the party any other night. He wants you to feel welcome." My grandmother whispered pulling me away from the crowd and towards what I assume is the kitchen.

"It's actually not as bad as I thought it would be" I laughed squeezing her hand. I never got to spend time with my grandparents even though they just lived an hour away I still know nothing about them. But walking hand and hand down the hallway while she gossiped about my grandad made me wish that I hadn't declined their offers to spend holidays or summers with them just so I could spend days picking myself apart and strategizing now to be better than everyone else.

It's crazy how much you miss out on when you spend the majority of your life living for the future instead of living in the present.

"Well good there is someone else I would like you to me." She pulled through the swing door and into a rather large kitchen. White wooden counters lined every wall in the kitchen with matching white china cabinets above them filled with vintage dishes and in the center of the kitchen a long dark down Island that extended into what I assumed used to be a breakfast nook; Half the island had chairs for sitting and the rest was used for counter space.