Perfection v. Imperfection
Children know life best, I think.
Why do we convolute life as we get older? Is it because we view life more honestly? Is it, perhaps, because life actually becomes more complex as we take on more responsibility? Or maybe, it is a combination of the two. However honest I believe this to be, I also think the reason life becomes stuffier as we age is because we make it so.
Let me explain. As humans, we have a single rudimentary flaw. Imperfection. And yet, all of us, in some capacity or another desire the opposite. Despite what anyone says, the reason we work is not as simple as “I need a paycheck.” This may be the fundamental reason; it is not the principal reason. Something within us all, whether minute or weighty, stirs like disturbed waters, begging us to choose a profession we enjoy. Why is this? Why is emphasis put on “joyful” occupation, especially if all we need is “a paycheck?” Comment on how much sense that makes. I dare you.
Perfection is the key. It’s what we strive for, it’s why we live, it’s the basis of religion, philosophy, and even disbelief. It’s why psychologists remain employed, it’s why we cry ourselves to sleep at night, it’s the foundation of all disharmony and unhappiness. Why, then, do we long for something so profoundly moving and irritating? Something so cold, but so necessary? It is murder, it is agony, it is excellence-it is stupid. And yet, we need it.
Why?
We yearn for perfection, I think, because it is the only thing we cannot achieve on our own. This is where the belief in otherworldly creatures and beings comes from. Be it Krishna, Allah, or Christ, humans never cease to be inspired by the belief in a “higher power.” Who can deny it? Even atheists must believe in God to deny Him, yes? Or at least a form of a god. These gods, whether their deeds be dastardly or not, have what we want. Regardless of their actions, gods are perfect. Perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect age-or at least a younger appearance; less wrinkles-perfect knowledge, perfect wisdom. This is what gives these gods their power-or at least, the power we ascribe to them.
Our admiration of their perfection varies. Perfection wets some people’s whistles. For others, it drives them. Hitler was a man searching for perfection, as was Julius Caesar. Both led hideous lives-as well as hideous deaths. Moses desired perfection, as did Judas. One loved Christ, the other betrayed Him. Perfectionists come in all different shapes, sizes, and colors. So do humans.
Because the two are inseparable.
Children understand this. So what do they do? They, too, strive for perfection. Though I seem to condemn perfection, it is not my purpose. What I’m saying is that children understand the method to living life-the method to striving for perfection. Unlike us, a child refuses to struggle for perfection. If they get it right, they get it right. And they are very proud of their work. If it is wrong, then it is wrong. What, then, is their attitude? Better luck next time? No. Their minds stray far from it-the imperfection of it and all-until the next time they confront the issue. How many of us do the same? Not I, certainly. And many of you I could name offhand who don’t proceed this way either.
What is remarkable about this? Simple-there is no connectivity between perfection and imperfection. In a child’s mind, the two are polar opposites. Whatever is perfect is perfect, whatever is imperfect is imperfect. And this, I wager, is how it should be. The reason adults are capable of making even the simplest situations complicated is because we bring to them every imperfection we’ve ever encountered before, and then attempt to render them all perfect with one simple act of perfection. That’s like writing ten imperfect sentences, but making the final sentence so perfect, it renders the others’ imperfection void. How silly is that?
Each event should be individualized. Let the imperfections of your life remain. Make perfection of that which can be perfected-one mistake at a time.
It is this blending of imperfection with perfection that nearly cost me my life yesterday morning. Something I did-something that’s followed me throughout my ENTIRE life (this is no exaggeration)-and the supposed repercussions of that event forced me to consider suicide. More than consider, I would say. The note had been written, as had my will. All I needed was a weapon, a tool-a means of escape. When most people hear of suicide attempts, I think their automatic assumption is that the person was thoroughly mistreated, a product of an inhumanly unjust life, and therefore desired removal from life.
That had no bearing whatsoever on my thought pattern. I knew people loved me, I knew people would miss me. I envisioned my best friend, Brian Anderson, discovering my bloodied body on his kitchen floor, the weapon of choice lying somewhere close-a kitchen knife. I pictured various people who’d last seen me alive, streaming before my casket, bawling for the life they felt bore so much potential. “Cut down in the flower of his youth,” they would repeat. Cousins, aunts, uncles, friends, church members, co-workers, etc. Then I thought of my brother and my parents.
Only then did I think, “Perhaps I should do this quickly-and alone. Like an overdose or something.” A sad truth: I wanted people to find me dead. I didn’t care how I would pain them, maybe even cripple them. I just wanted to die. I couldn’t bear to live any longer. All because I wanted to make perfect that which cannot be perfected. I wanted to perfect the past, undo all I’d done, be normal and different straightaway.
This is impossible. I knew that-that’s why I yearned to die. So, why am I still here?
As Griffin and Brandy already know, it is Brian who talked me out of it. The conversation went in tangles for a good while. He’d urge me against suicide, I’d push for it. There were excuses made, some with solid reasons backing them. Ultimately, though, it was a single statement that froze my thought process-and forced me to tears for probably the thousandth time that morning. He needed me-it was that simple. As my best friend, he said, I was needed in order for him to succeed in life. Imagine the power behind that statement for just a moment.
My best friend needs me-alive, functional, and well. Call me a sissy, but every time I think of this, it nearly incapacitates me with its beauty. More modernly worded: it was EPIC!
Did I know this? Could I not sense that I was necessary for another person’s survival (or at least, happiness)? Perhaps, maybe so. I don’t think it’s too terribly arrogant to assume someone close to you needs you. But who the hell thinks like that? I didn’t, at least not in full. So to hear it come from the person who actually needs you in the moment you’re concerned with no one but yourself and your own wellbeing-WOW!
Honestly, there’s still a bit of rawness to the event, like the flesh hanging from a flayed carcass. The emotion rests dormant, but is strong. The best reference: think of Sauron as the Eye. I need prayer, perhaps counseling. What I definitely need is time and therapy.
Thankfully, writing provides both. I’ve said it a million times already, but I must thank him again. Thanks, Brian Anderson. I need you too. =]