The three p's

"Perfectionism leads to procrastination which leads eventually to paralysis."

That quote could literally be the sub text on my memoirs. 

Nearly 12 years ago, back when I had a myspace account (remember myspace?!), I had intended to chronicle my life (however pathetic it may be). 

Instead, I started having babies and ended up pushing that plan out of the way for stuff like... you know, survival. 

Then about two and half years ago, I came up with The Frizzled Fray. I purchased the URL, roughly designed what I wanted it to look like, started keeping “future” blog posts in my notes folder, and then got swallowed up by life. Again. 

Roughly six months ago, I asked my sister-in-law (who happens to be a fantastic web designer in her spare time) to help me design (and by that I mean, have her do it all for me because I’m computer illiterate) the blog I intended to publish at last.

Six months, guys. That’s how long it took me from the point of knowing I was going to do this, owning an actual URL, having a website totally designed for me, and possessing a folder of at least twenty five potential blog posts, to actually get to a place where I could hit the “Publish” button, and ultimately share it with people who (I think as a general rule) don’t hate my guts or judge me unfairly. That’s how paralyzing my “perfectionism” has become. 

Writing has always been extremely important to me. I’ve kept a journal (almost daily- until the twins came) since I was eight. I’ve written anything from short stories, long stories, fake commercial adds, poems, lyrics, skits, articles, and (the afore mentioned) potential “Blog” posts for almost as long. As soon as I could coherently write, I was doing it. I’ve always struggled a little with spelling, and there are so many rules in the english language, that I know I don’t follow all of them. But it’s something that brings me immense joy. It’s a major stress reliever for me. I do it when I’m happy, sad, angry, or silly. When I find myself in something, and when I need to decompress, I write. 

It has never been, nor will it ever be something I do for other people. Or rather, to please other people. I do it for me, because in doing it, I feel like a more complete version of myself. However, I have allowed myself through the years to be self intimidated into not letting other people read the stuff I write because I was afraid of being critiqued. Judged. I don’t know why because I’ve never really cared about what other people thought of me, except somehow the things I wrote weren’t me, they were my babies, and like any overprotective mother, I shielded them from anyone (everyone) who may in any way, tear down or lessen the value my babies had for me.  

It got so bad, that when people would ask what I liked to do in my spare time, I wouldn’t even tell them I enjoyed writing because I was worried that meant I had to share, and that I was then, accountable for the quality of the things I wrote. To myself, I am, but not to others. That’s crazy. Not a good crazy either. A procrastinated, paralyzing, sad, confined, kind of crazy. Now, when people ask me what I do in my spare time (which, lets be honest, I don’t have much of), I’m going to tell the truth. 

I’m committing to get outside myself. To push myself more than I ever have. I’ve pretty much known what I wanted to do my whole life, and now that I’m 34, I’m finally ready to stop knowing all those things and start doing some of them. This is just the first step.

Also, I have so many things I've been keeping in over the years, I’m probably just going to word vomit all of it out consistently until I have nothing left to say. Fair warning. 

Let the chips fall where they may. Read it or don’t. It’s here though. Now I can get off my own back about it.