On imperfect and incomplete.
Words won't come easy tonight. 72 hours of throwing up and bathroom visits and headaches and nausea don't make for a coherent sorter of thoughts and writer of words. Aria sleeps at the foot of my bed, snoring a little cat-like snore, and I know she is content that I am home tonight.
Tonight, my thoughts are focused on this:
That people aren't perfect and that's actually really okay. Perfectionism is an ideal I have struggled with my whole life. I have wanted to get as close to perfect as possible; I wanted to have a perfect education and career; date (and marry) the perfect man; live the perfect life.
Well, shit son. I've come to realize that I'm 27 years old and guess what? I'm not perfect yet. I can't apply make-up with the same skill level as some girls and my hair isn't always shiny (in fact, it's often messy) and the perfect man is nonexistent. I've learned that sometimes people have jobs they need instead of the jobs they -want-, because, fuck, unemployment is rough and something has to pay the bills. And no, not everyone knew you were supposed to work hard in school and pull all-nighters like I did. And yeah, there were other kids whose fathers beat them up like mine did, and guess what? Their abuse fucking crushed them. They turned to drugs and alcohol and abusive relationships and they didn't overcome it like I did.
My roommate is on anti-depressants and I don't even think he cares if his girlfriend of four weeks finds out because, fuck it, that's who he is. Life doesn't fit into a perfect box like I thought it did, like I wanted it to. People suck, man. People are emotional and irrational. People are guilty of things and they lie about it. People can have anger issues, be infertile, hit the bong every night, admit themselves to the psych wards when they try to kill themselves... and y'know, we're all a little fucked up. Hell, I'm nothing close to normal myself.
I remember having a discussion with Heather three years ago after a boot camp session. I was frustrated that this obese chick at the boot camp was refusing to try any of the drills. The instructor tried to talk to her and she'd just shake her head and lean against the wall. Afterward, I was telling Heather about this and I was like (I paraphrase):
"I just don't get why she wouldn't try. Just one push up. One modified push up. You spend all that money for boot camp and you drive yourself there and you won't even try? Just one? Just one effing modified push up? C'mon, man."
And the ever diplomatic Heather: "Why are you hating on her so much? Did you ever think that maybe it took all she had just to get to boot camp and stand through the session? Maybe that was all she could do. Not everyone is like you."
And the translation that came through: God, stop being so insensitive. Show some compassion, woman.
And maybe I'm just too damn hard on other people sometimes. I apply my expectations of myself to them without realizing we're all our own unique individuals with our own stories to tell.
I'm flawed. I know that. And others are too. And maybe if I stopped expecting so much perfection from everyone and everything, I could really learn to embrace wabi-sabi, the incomplete, unfinished, imperfect. Life's messy, man. There are no straight edges, clean lines, perfect circles. We're just scribbles and marks and smudges. We're just bumbling along, finding our way, one day at a time.
Be gentle with yourself. And others, too. We're all imperfect. We're all in this together.
Tonight, my thoughts are focused on this:
That people aren't perfect and that's actually really okay. Perfectionism is an ideal I have struggled with my whole life. I have wanted to get as close to perfect as possible; I wanted to have a perfect education and career; date (and marry) the perfect man; live the perfect life.
Well, shit son. I've come to realize that I'm 27 years old and guess what? I'm not perfect yet. I can't apply make-up with the same skill level as some girls and my hair isn't always shiny (in fact, it's often messy) and the perfect man is nonexistent. I've learned that sometimes people have jobs they need instead of the jobs they -want-, because, fuck, unemployment is rough and something has to pay the bills. And no, not everyone knew you were supposed to work hard in school and pull all-nighters like I did. And yeah, there were other kids whose fathers beat them up like mine did, and guess what? Their abuse fucking crushed them. They turned to drugs and alcohol and abusive relationships and they didn't overcome it like I did.
My roommate is on anti-depressants and I don't even think he cares if his girlfriend of four weeks finds out because, fuck it, that's who he is. Life doesn't fit into a perfect box like I thought it did, like I wanted it to. People suck, man. People are emotional and irrational. People are guilty of things and they lie about it. People can have anger issues, be infertile, hit the bong every night, admit themselves to the psych wards when they try to kill themselves... and y'know, we're all a little fucked up. Hell, I'm nothing close to normal myself.
I remember having a discussion with Heather three years ago after a boot camp session. I was frustrated that this obese chick at the boot camp was refusing to try any of the drills. The instructor tried to talk to her and she'd just shake her head and lean against the wall. Afterward, I was telling Heather about this and I was like (I paraphrase):
"I just don't get why she wouldn't try. Just one push up. One modified push up. You spend all that money for boot camp and you drive yourself there and you won't even try? Just one? Just one effing modified push up? C'mon, man."
And the ever diplomatic Heather: "Why are you hating on her so much? Did you ever think that maybe it took all she had just to get to boot camp and stand through the session? Maybe that was all she could do. Not everyone is like you."
And the translation that came through: God, stop being so insensitive. Show some compassion, woman.
And maybe I'm just too damn hard on other people sometimes. I apply my expectations of myself to them without realizing we're all our own unique individuals with our own stories to tell.
I'm flawed. I know that. And others are too. And maybe if I stopped expecting so much perfection from everyone and everything, I could really learn to embrace wabi-sabi, the incomplete, unfinished, imperfect. Life's messy, man. There are no straight edges, clean lines, perfect circles. We're just scribbles and marks and smudges. We're just bumbling along, finding our way, one day at a time.
Be gentle with yourself. And others, too. We're all imperfect. We're all in this together.