I’ve always believed it was my job to fix the world. To make everything perfect.
I never actually said that. I didn’t even consciously think it. But I walked through the world feeling a sort of panic — a desperation to fix things — that most people never experience.
Looking back, it’s obvious now where that fear came from. As I was growing up, my narcissistic father held me responsible for being perfect. I was punished for any deviation from what he thought was right and good. And he constantly judged everybody and everything around me.
Behind their backs, he ridiculed people who did things incorrectly. If he saw a public mistake — a timing error on a live television show or a typo in a newspaper, for instance — he used to tell me that someone must have been fired for the mistake. And I believed him.
I’m still afraid of my own imperfection. I still feel panic when I see others’ mistakes. After all these years, there’s still a nagging feeling inside that I have to fix everything — or else I’ll be punished.

When Demopublicans and Republicrats clash, you lose
No matter where I might ever live, the South will always be my home
We who believe life has meaning have lost war for modern culture
Finding your own authentic voice is riskier than copying everybody else
Health risk and social costs make drinking alcohol a very poor risk
Keep trying: The squirrels are pedaling as hard as they can
Flawed bricks can build our lives, because perfection never arrives
Jesus’ face on a Walmart receipt? People see what they want to see
Could ‘free cities’ — existing inside more restrictive states — be a first step toward freedom?