While we were out yesterday, my daughter and I, on our trip to Dairy Queen and mindless shopping at Target to get my mind off of the unpleasantness, she gave me a gift. She had been intending it to be a prize for my first house sale, but since my quest for a sale is starting to resemble Leonardo DiCaprio's long wait for an Oscar, she decided it was better as a consolation present to cheer me up. It was an oval peridot pendant, one of my all-time favorite stones. She pointed out why she chose that particular pendant. She said most of the others were clear and nearly flawless, but this one was full of inclusions. It was so much more interesting to look at, because it was imperfect. I smiled and said, "It's me." I am so flawed, and I desperately want to think it makes me more interesting.
I've spent most of my life trying to be perfect. I wanted to be the smartest. I wanted to be the most artistic. I wanted to do everything exactly according to the rules, and get it all right. I wanted to have a perfect body. I wanted a storybook marriage. I never got any of those things as well as I hoped, and I beat myself up for it for my whole life. When I looked at myself, I forgot my number one rule for humans, that I made up and voiced when I was a teenager. To be perfect, you have to carry some scars. I've believed that as long as I can remember. But why couldn't I apply it to myself? I thought I had to be flawless to get anyone's attention or respect. I was backwards.
It is at the times I confess my worst pain and failures that I garner the most attention. In some ways, it's healing to have the support and sympathy of so many people, at the same time that it is ultimately humbling, facing my shortcomings and making a public spectacle of myself. The battle rages inside of me, loving imperfect people yet wanting to be a paragon myself. I don't know where to go with it. If I don't constantly struggle to improve, I will stagnate. But if I never accept myself for who I am, I will never be happy. It feels like a trap.
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