Diary of a Recovering Perfectionist

"Remember, the goal is to win the war, and it is acceptable to lose a battle now and then." 

-LSAT study guide

Yesterday I sat down to take a third practice exam within a 6-week period. After scoring half of the test and realizing I was doing an average job, I was sent into a tailspin of panic and self doubt. Yes, you read correctly. Average, not failing. The score I got was projected to finish with, even at its worst, would have gotten me into several universities. However, that was not good enough for me, a recovering perfectionist.

I've been studying for the LSAT, the Law School Admission Test, since September. The exam, in my opinion, doesn't seem as daunting as the GRE, Graduate Record Examination, but it is still difficult. I had the time to dedicate to the exam, so I decided to take full advantage and study every nook, cranny, and possibility of the test. Law school comes with an expensive price tag, and my LSAT score is crucial to scoring a sale price. (Even in bad times, I can make good dad jokes).

Each time I have taken this exam, I've increased my raw score by approximately 8 points. Which is huge progress. That means each time, I get a total of 8 more questions correct. Assuming this would continue to happen, as I've been putting in especially long hours the last couple weeks, I sat down with confidence, faith in my weeks of hard work, timer in hand, ready to go. The first section came and went beautifully. Then I got to the second section and had trouble with one or two questions. I faltered. I crashed and burned. I checked the section afterward, and found that I missed a record number of questions. I laid down and cried.

These tears are like a broken record for me. Yesterday's meltdown specifically took me back to the time I played piano at church as an 8-year-old child. I played "Ode to Joy," a song I knew by heart. I played it from memory actually, no sheet music. Somewhere in the middle of the performance, I missed a few notes. I immediately began to panic, which caused me to miss even more. By the time I finished, I had done such a terrible job in my 8-year-old-perfectionist mind, that I was an embarrassment to my family, church, and society, all for missing a couple notes and perhaps improvising a Bailey original by the end of the performance. No one heard it that way. Everyone clapped lovingly and assured me of how well I did. I walked back to my seat with my family, where I laid down and cried in embarrassment in shame. I wasn't crying because I didn't "get what I want." It was much deeper than that, like my tears yesterday. I was embarrassed and disappointed in myself for not performing to the potential I knew I was capable of. At that point in my life, I was not engaging in self-harming habits, but I was able to feel full self-loathing. That's what happened yesterday. I let a few missed notes, a few missed questions trip me, and I fell face-first into my former-perfectionist ways. My appetite changed accordingly. I ate very little yesterday, causing me to have even more shame and disappointment. It was a heartbreaking day all around.

I thought my days of crying about defeat were over. Apparently not. The LSAT has actually driven me to tears before. Like a scene out of a movie, I checked my second practice test, and after question 15, I seemed to have missed every single one. I was at home alone, and immediately started panicking and crying. How had I done so terribly? Had I learned nothing? I'm getting WORSE! Then I looked down to realize I had been looking at the wrong section for the whole second half. Sigh. I was actually more than fine.

Despite that somewhat silly anecdote, I knew that neither of those reactions were healthy. I let the results of a standardized test ruin my self confidence for an entire day. Life's too short, dude! Not only that, but I was distraught over having an average score. Average is hard for me to accept, especially if it's something I've been working at for a long time. I wasn't distraught because I tried and failed like a normal person. I was distraught because I didn't do perfectly-- because I achieved X and not Y. I've been working for hours per week for months to make sure I do perfectly. My brain just could not accept it.

After my meltdown yesterday, I went for a run, which also did not go 100% according to plan, causing me more feelings of anxiety. I have let the pain of perfectionism rule my life for so long, which eventually manifested into an eating disorder. When that was diagnosed, I tried hard to say goodbye to my perfectionist ways. I was mostly successful, but I still have terrible days, like yesterday. I feel endless amounts of guilt if my running workouts or races are not 100%. I feel guilty when I study only 2.5 hours, not a full 3. I feel guilt when I get an average score on an exam. I work on this everyday.

Today, still feeling a little defeated, I peeled myself out of bed and took my study materials to my favorite cafe to try again. I ended up finishing my 500-page book on LSAT strategies and theories, and found a little nugget of wisdom within the last five pages, the quote that inspired this post.

"Remember, the goal is to win the war, and it is acceptable to lose a battle now and then."

The advice was purely technical, literally encouraging students to go on when they're stuck on a question. But the advice was poignant and precisely what I needed to read today, especially regarding my mental health. I never thought I'd see the day that I found solace in a study guide. Here we are. Yesterday I lost a battle to perfectionism. And it was acceptable. Because my goal is to win the war.

Stay strong, my loves. You are more than enough.

Female is not a noun: A lesson in class, tact, and common sense

As the soul proprietor of this blog (hahaha luv my puns) I would like to formally apologize for “letting things go.” It’s not you, it’s me. I’ve been cheating on The Peace Mobile a little bit with the likes of... well, other blogs. Please forgive me. I have lots of new pieces for TPM, but they take a little more academic work and editing, which takes more time… which I don’t always have. But don’t worry! I found some just for you!

;) With that being said.

Female is not a noun.

Before anyone questions this, here is a literal dictionary definition. IT IS AN ADJECTIVE. I REPEAT. IT IS AN ADJECTIVE.

The Problem

Most of the time I see the use of “female” as a noun coming from a lovely place called Men on the Internet. Yah, I get it #notallmen. But I have witnessed men, that previously had my complete respect, use this word attempting to be funny. The internet is an interesting place. People can post memes, retweets, and re-grams, and this tricks these people into thinking they are award-winning comedians with the simple use of words such as "lit," "savage," and, yes, you guessed it, "females."

The Solution: Step One

Recognize that female is not a noun.

Do you remember in elementary school when you learned that “bitch” means "female dog," so you used an otherwise scientific word to get away with cursing? Do you know why there is a completely different word for a female dog? Because FEMALE IS NOT A NOUN.  You can say, “female adult,” “female infant,” “female canine.” Because this is an adjective, and adjectives are placed before the noun they are describing! !!! !!

If that didn't clear things up, here is a fun analogy for you.

For funsies, let's use the word “male” incorrectly as a noun, substituted for when I should be using the word “men” or “boy.” (which are nouns, thanks)

My milkshake brings all the males to the yard.

My brother is in the Male Scouts.

Malez 2 Men or Boyz 2 Malez or Malez to Malez - take your pick!

When applied to the opposite, privileged sex, doesn’t this sound absolutely ridiculous?

The Solution: Step Two

Don’t call female-identifying people females.   !!!

I can hear the arguments already from mansplainers and ignorami everywhere. “Wow, feminazi! It’s just a little word.” “I don’t see the big deal.” “You’re really worked up about one word!”

Hell yes I am. The use of “females” to describe women and children is problematic. Using this non-noun to describe living, breathing humans is not only incorrect, but lazy and dismissive.

Thankfully there are some other words you can use instead of female. Like, WOMEN, LADIES, GIRLS, BADASSES. This brings me to an entirely new discussion; the appropriate distinction between “women” and “girls.” I’ve broken each word down for your convenience.

Woman/Women- Any person who identifies as a woman who is old enough to 1. Earn a living. 2. Participate in higher education if she so chooses. 3. To vote and participate in society legally. 3. Generally anyone over the age of 18. Here are some extras in case I haven’t been clear enough. 4. Be a mother to cats, dogs, and children alike. 5. Be over 18 years old. 

Those are just some things that can make the distinction between a "female child" and a "female adult" just in case you for some reason cannot make the distinction with your own eyeballs. *And NEVER underestimate the power of a girl!

Girl/Girls- A female-identifying child. Legally defined as being under 18 years of age, but likely to have already experienced the heartbreak of oppression and the patriarchy already. Sharp as a tack. Can recognize human rights and has a moral distinction most adults do not have. 

But wait. THERE’S A CATCH. I know this is a lot of work, but please hear me out.

Please do not refer to grown ass women as girls. 

It’s not acceptable for anyone, man or woman, to refer to women as “girls” in almost all settings. Whether it is a professional, academic, or religious establishment, please call adult women WOMEN.

BUT WHY? Why, you nasty woman?

Because this, yet again, denies women of their womanhood. Calling women “girls” is denying them of their experience as mothers, managers, employees, academics, and general adults who have really been through some shit to earn their right to be recognized as an adult. Little girls obviously grow into amazing, hardworking women, but the difference between children, and grown, adult women deserves acknowledgement.

Again, this is an issue the opposite sex does not seem to have. After a certain age, boys become men and never look back. Of course, there are societal standards for masculinity and manhood, and I am not denying that. But (straight) men are acknowledged for being men always. Their experiences are never denied. They are never infantilized. 

*Also relevant. “Little girl” needs to lose the connotation ASAP. When I use it, I am literally referring to children. I am not using it to say small children are incapable or inferior. “You run like a girl.” “You throw like a girl.” “Don’t be a little girl about it.” Etc. To put it bluntly, this shit needs to stop. There is no excuse. 

Ugh now I AM SO MAD.

Sometimes I even catch myself saying “girls” in place of “women.” I am now very conscious of this. These are small words with big meaning. Take control! Sometimes I will even correct people if it’s appropriate. For example, recently I was talking to a family friend about his relationships. He is 34 years old, and he said, “I don’t date random girls.” I said, “You don’t date random women. We are women. Call us women.” And he took my advice and didn’t think twice about it. I’m not trying to be all-knowing or mean in my corrections. This is simply a problem and the solution is simple.

On a closing note, I will say that after being in Europe for almost a year and studying two languages simultaneously, there are different words in different languages to mean "girl" and "woman," and culturally the uses are much different. I'm not giving you a French or Spanish lesson here. I'm speaking directly to you native-English speakers. You know who you are.

The next time you begin to use the word “girl,” check yourself. Are you talking about a grown ass woman or a child? Adjust accordingly.

On behalf of all women everywhere,

Thanks.

Thank you for being my joy.

Thank you for teaching me the meaning of the word "inquisitive" at age four. I distinctly remember you telling me that I am inquisitive. I remember your facial expression exactly, and I remember the precise tone of your voice. Immediately I asked, "What does that mean?" And you just grinned the way you did and said, "It means that you ask a lot of questions."

Thank you for never questioning my ambitions. From the time I wanted to play in the WNBA, to the time I wanted to be a doctor to invent a pill that would "make you live forever," you had no questions-- only support. At the time I was only 5, and the pill was being designed with Eulah and Nanny in mind. But oh, how I wish I had succeeded in my invention.

Thank you for coaching my elementary school basketball team when no one else wanted to step up and do it. Maybe this was also your way of showing support for the WNBA dream. ;) Typically a parent would have, but there were only 7 or 8 of us from such a tiny farm school. So you did it. Because that's exactly how you were.  My grandparent from another state volunteered to be the basketball coach for a group of elementary school girls who had an affinity for lipgloss and hairspray. Thank you for buying each of us sterling silver basketball-shaped earrings at the end of the season. I know that to this day, each one of those girls remembers who you are.

Thank you for teaching me about opinions and assumptions at a young age. ;) Both having to do with either being an asshole or having one.

Thanks for following me around in that golf cart the one time I ran a 5k in your hometown. Despite the fact that I was only out less than 25 minutes, you jacked a golf cart to park at every corner of the course. 100% Ray Redman move. And thank you for keeping me humble. Or trying at least. It was a holiday 5k, and I was dressed as a Christmas tree. There was another girl there with a giant bow on her butt. I made fun of her costume, and she ended up beating me. -_- You jovially reminded me of that at the end, you turd. But thank you. You were right. And thank you for standing outside for hours at my other races, excitedly reporting to me which place I was in, even when I was struggling and didn't care. Your presence was all I needed. Yours and Mamaw's.

Speaking of jacking golf carts, thank you for teaching me that it's okay and a little badass to bend the rules and do whatcha please if the time is right and you're not hurtin' anybody.

Thank you for teaching me that if you fall down, it's okay to lay there and laugh at yourself. You did this exactly at Alli's birthday party one summer when we were playing a huge family game of wiffle ball. You slid into a base and also slid into the ground. Flat on the ground. This resulted in uncontrollable laughter from most of the party, but not me. Once I saw you were okay I could laugh a little. You handled such a moment in the way that only you could.

Thank you for attending every event possible that I've ever participated in, whether or not it interested you. Actually, I think you always made it interesting. For yourself and for others. I don't mean that in a "funny" way either. Before I was in track, you were never interested in track. But you came with me to my first invitational where I was the sole high jumper for my school. I remember you were the only one able to come, and that afterward we ate at the Bob Evans farm. We drove home in your gold Buick.

Thank you for sitting on my feet when they were cold.

Thank you for marrying Mamaw.

Thank you for my middle name.

Thank you for telling me that only the smartest people have gaps in their teeth when I was 6 and self conscious about my gap, even though my grin matched yours.

Thank you for making my mom buy me Cocoa Puffs when I was 12. "Lori. Go buy that baby some Cocoa Puffs."

Thank you for wearing a bow-tie to my OSU graduation. I literally cried because you looked so precious.

Thank you for driving all the way to Columbus to take me home and to the hospital when I was sick. Thank you for being understanding when I got a shot in the butt on an empty stomach and nearly fainted. You laughed after the fact, but at the time you were all that I needed. Thanks for chiding that three-year-old in the waiting room who stole the pixy stix the nurses gave me to increase my blood sugar. "Hey, she needs that. Give that back!"

Thank you for taking in my Maggie Jane and loving her like you did-- your special grand cat. <3 p="">
Thanks for teaching me to embrace and love my weird self.

Thanks for not freaking out when I got your handwriting tattooed on my arm. Thanks for loving it.

Thank you for teaching me that there is always room for jokes-- that everything can be a  laughing matter if your heart is light enough. That when everything is going to hell, it's okay to laugh. Thank you for teaching me that you must create your own joy.

Thank you for being my joy.

I love you forever and always.

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I'm running a triathlon this December and raising money for a cause that I think my grandfather would have loved. In a nutshell, the Hall Steps Foundation was started by elite runners to assist impoverished areas in east Africa. They have provided clean drinking water for villages and maternity clinics for women who otherwise would not have received medical care. 100% of the proceeds go to the foundation's efforts. If you would like to participate in my memorial fundraising event, you can read about it and donate here! https://www.crowdrise.com/memorial-fundraiser/fundraiser/jamiebailey4


For more posts about my Papaw:

http://thepeacemobile.blogspot.com.es/2014/11/what-my-tattoos-meant-to-my-grandpa.html

http://thepeacemobile.blogspot.com.es/2014/11/a-small-speech-for-big-heart.html

http://thepeacemobile.blogspot.com.es/2015/07/invincible-summer.html