Painting away perfectionism...

I wish it were that simple, I really do. My logical self knows that it is not, but my wishful-thinking self may keep on wishing. I recently sat in my therapist's office lamenting about that idea. "What if I just flip a switch and decide to be different? What if I just choose not to be "this way"?! I carried on. She listened and nodded compassionately, letting me get through it until I finally allowed myself to admit, “But I know it doesn't work that way.” 

I began the process of seeking a diagnosis for OCD in January after months...let's be honest...years of research. I've been a person my whole life who has been labeled as "particular", "OCD", "perfectionist”, "weird”, and "germophobe". I've been the bane of friends' and family's timeliness as I always took longer to get ready and am frequently late... also what up potential ADHD diagnosis but I am a little diagnosed out currently. 

After almost 33 years with myself in my head and in my routines, I've been feeling pretty mentally exhausted for some time. I started to notice that I was having a harder and harder time making decisions and maintaining the standards of work I was used to. I have days where I mentally feel like I cannot leave my house. So, I decided it was time to seek a new therapeutic approach and add some new tools to my toolbox to hopefully help me move through my life a little easier, a little less exhausted. 

I say all this to tell a story that spans back decades up to two weekends ago. When I was 14 or 15, we began the process of building our last family home. I say we literally meaning me, my mother, brother, sister, and builder father because that's how it was in our family. We grew up around job sites, taking on little tasks and odd jobs my father could trust us with. The journey with that property began with clearing almost 8 acres of land ourselves. I remember laying plywood for the first floor and helping raise walls. I performed masterful acrobatic feats like walking on and helping set floor joists over the garage which eventually took shape as my sister’s and my bedroom suite and the bonus room where we spent many nights with our friends. 

As electric, plumbing, insulation, and sheetrock were installed, we eventually got to the painting part. The fun part of painting, for me at least, was each of us got to pick our own colors. My siblings and I ended up picking two colors each based on the bedding we had picked out. I was using my newest quilt at the time made by my Mim & great Aunt Fran. The quilt is one of three I received throughout the years and is still my favorite. 

This particular quilt is a patchwork of light blue and yellow patterned material. There are some blue and yellow floral pieces, some blue heart and small floral patterned pieces, some solid blue pieces, all bordered by a speckled yellow and dotted sky-blue fabric. 

Naturally, I chose a sky blue paint for the majority of my room and a yellow paint for two angled corners that arched over a double window looking out onto the pond and a gorgeous mountain view. Coincidentally, I chose the same blue as my previous bedroom and the same yellow as our previous sibling-shared bathroom. Paints picked out, I’m sure my father handled the bulk of the painting of walls. The rest of us were tasked with painting trim...this is where we learned a lesson in Court's struggles with perfectionism. 

As I recall it, I was very, I reiterate very, slow with the painting of my bedroom trim. I had to make sure I was going so slow with the edges and that my brush strokes looked just so. I think my sister finished her whole room before I finished a small nook of mine and I believe I was fired before someone else took over. I remember, however, finding caulking the paneling, posts, and trim or puttying nail holes very satisfying. My OCD tendencies were very satisfied when it came to those tasks. 

Moving forward, I've had this story that I cannot paint because I am too slow and too particular about it and I don't enjoy it. I also learned years later, when gifted an adult coloring book, that I didn't enjoy coloring either. Once again, I was slow and particular to the point of causing frustration rather than calming enjoyment. I have spent the last few years trying to overcome that struggle with coloring. I am finally to the point that, when the mood strikes, I can relax and lean into one of my adult coloring books. 

As for painting, particularly of homes, I still had this narrative that I could not paint. And yet, I have been obsessing about redecorating, repainting, or doing various projects around my home for months. I began looking at couches, then bathroom vanities and mirrors, wood accent wall designs, and paint colors. For fear of trying to tackle a project I wasn't capable of handling myself, I decided to repaint my small bathroom. I went to Home Depot and scoped out paint colors leaning toward something in the mauve palette after seeing it highlighted in a Better Homes & Garden article "12 Best Paint Colors for Small Bathrooms”. I feared I was being impulsive given a new therapy journey, OCD diagnosis, brokerage change, and other life shifts, so I paused. 

Then, two weeks ago, I came back to the idea of repainting my small bathroom. I texted my father and brother for advice, researched on the internet, and decided I was going to tackle it. In the wise words of my father and brother, "Just go for it. Can always paint again" (dad) and "You just have to send it! Let her rip and notice all the $hit you missed next week" (brother). 🤣 Besides, two of my best friends and boyfriend were headed out of town and I have been slow with work, so I figured what else would I have to do that weekend. 

With motivation and excitement ignited, I was sure I could tackle repainting my very small bathroom in a day; turns out, I was slightly overly optimistic. I ventured back to Home Depot for a paint sample and scouting of supplies on a Friday and moved forward with painting a giant sample patch on the wall where my towel hangs. Every time I looked at it, I giggled with joy! After some further reassurance-seeking (thanks OCD) from boyfriend, family, and friends, I decided to go for it. 

Saturday brought a third trip to Home Depot for supplies and paint. I tackled the task of puttying, sanding, and removing hardware then wiped all the walls down, vacuumed and dusted to remove dirt and debris before losing daylight and steam. As dawn broke on Easter Sunday, I rose with rejuvenated vigor, walked my dog, had breakfast and coffee, and ventured back into my tiny bathroom to begin taping. For such a tiny space, my perfectionism took hold and it took me multiple attempts, trials, and hours before completing a small section of taping. I paused my task for a delightful Easter dinner with friends and resigned myself to resuming taping on Monday. 

Once all taping was finally complete, plastic laid, I was eager to get a paintbrush in hand! Monday brought more internet searches and texts to my father and brother for tips, but I began painting my edges. I vacillated between focus, calm, excitement, uncertainty, frustration, and joy. As the day faded to a twilight glow, I decided to roll my first coat. After the tediousness, precision, and contortionism involved in painting my edges, rolling was intoxicating! It felt easy and was so satisfying to see my bright, fresh bathroom come to life. I pondered whether or not a second coat was necessary, decided it was, and cleaned up for the day. 

Tuesday was for coat two and I was glad I went through with it. When I finished and stood back to look at my work, I felt very accomplished. I then impatiently waited for the paint to dry so I could remove all that tape. Once I felt I had waited long enough, I began the very satisfying, or so I thought, process of gently removing tape. Spoiler alert, I had not waited long enough for one section and had to deal with the consequences after punishing myself with more drying time. With the tape and plastic peeled away and discarded, I examined my work, made some touch-ups, fixed a few spots as best I could, and have resigned myself to sitting with a few minor imperfections for the time being. 

To bring the project to completion, I waited a full day before putting everything back together. I reattached towel rods and rings, screwed outlet and switch covers back into place, and rehung my two little bathroom accessories. I only mildly cursed as I hammered new nail holes into my freshly painted walls, but bare walls would be boring. 

My bathroom now radiating, feminine, fresh, and joyous, I sat with my accomplishment and other feelings for the remainder of the week. I shared my project and assessment of the process with my therapist who echoed my sentiments and congratulated me on tackling the project.

Perfectionism is something praised in many arenas. I've received praise for certain perfectionist and compulsive tendencies for as long as I can remember. Over the years, I've grown to resent the extra work I put in, the mental tax and exhaustion. I resent the fact that my perfectionist tendencies and rumination keep me from doing a lot of things for fear of not being "perfect" or being judged, even though I logically know perfection isn't real and should not be put on a pedestal. 

We often refer to things that bring us calm, peace, or clarity as our therapy. Some say the gym is therapy, painting, meditating, reading, walking in nature. For me, painting, coloring and other creative endeavors have become a different kind of therapy. Not for the calming, positive effects, but for the challenge and lessons they force me to face and literally look at. 

While I cannot say painting my tiny bathroom allowed me to paint away perfectionism, it allowed me to rewrite a narrative I have held for many years. It served as progress, “Progress over perfection!” as they say. And as my former office buddy (also birthday twinnie) and I used to remind one another "Done is better than Perfect" and completing this solo paint project feels mauvelous…ok, I’ll let myself out.

💗 Court