My inner dialogue as I put away the clothes that I have perhaps always had on the chair.
My life has been filled with crammed art supplies in the corners of my home for as long as I can remember, establishing a core part of my being from around the age of 3. Since then, I’d be gifted paint and sketchbooks, upon craft supplies and crayons, with small tokens filtering their way in: buttons, ribbon, glitter, and stickers. With time on my hands that I could only dream of now having(and a genuine enjoyment of the activity), I’d spend hours sorting through my collection, finding the most precious of each item. Like most other precious items, these items were not to be touched, much less used. I’d tell myself that I was “saving them for a special day,” though I never quite found out what that special day was. It did not fall on a holiday or create one itself; it was not a day I had a friend over or my outfit looked just right. It was the beginning of this apparition of “perfection” that would haunt me throughout my greatest developmental years.
Looking around my room, you would not believe I was a perfectionist. I tend to have clothes draped across my desk chair from trying to concoct a never-before-seen outfit of mine and art supplies covering the top of my desk awaiting my return. I would have several books on the go at once, and they would lie at the foot of my bed, just out of kicking reach at night. I often did not make my bed in the morning, and makeup and nail polish bottles would rest at the floor of my full-length mirror. You would not know that I was a perfectionist until I felt my bones burn, my eyes well up, and the inability to speak overtake upon the sight of a 92% on a test.
However, that “perfect room” appeared to me as a privilege—one I had not earned. I felt this embarrassment about spending time tidying my room, or wearing nice outfits, or going out with friends, because I felt as though it was all a part of this “facade” I was putting on—that things were perfect, when my 92% most certainly was not. “I am a clunky girl. I am an embarrassing girl. I am not one of the “smart” kids you would want in your group, I’d tell myself, hoping and praying nobody asked what I got so I would not have to turn my paper towards them and reveal my less-than-perfect score. And when I got a 100%, I did not feel relief. I felt my shoulders, high with tension, slightly drop. I felt like I could show a peer when they asked me what I got, but I overwhelmingly felt nothing. “This is just what I was supposed to do,” I thought, at the sight of every 100%, every award and certification, and each of my graduations thus far.
But when do you think someone who views objectively “perfect” things as not perfect enough, will finally deem something as “perfect?” What, then, is being strived for when we have now surpassed levels of perfection?
And how long did I sit with a feeling of pride? How often did I bask in the relief that I accomplished what I set out to do? When did I feel that peace I promised myself that I would feel once I finally “just completed this one last thing?” Unbeknownst to me, the bar I set for myself would rise, Trojan-horsed by “motivation,” as I research what it is I could do next. As I write, I look to the candle I bought myself this time last year. “I will burn it” I said, “when life feels lighter, as a way to celebrate.” And so now I am sitting with my candle, both of us waiting for our spark. I have learned very quickly over the last few years that life will never be 100% perfect; something always must give, perhaps to maintain some sort of balance. But I also think we create that perfection. I look back now to the aspects of my life I deemed perfect at the time and yet still saved those candles and perfumes and outfits for when things became “more” perfect. I am now without some of those past aspects, and I wish I shared those things with them. I wish I shared those things with that version of me. It would not have been a waste for past me to experience life to the fullest, and that is why I do not fault her for having better days than I. It is odd to come full circle from not wanting to live in the past or future so much that I end up micromanaging my present, still going against the idea of “living in the moment.”
We are so consumed with this superficial and flawed idea of perfection that we are treating our limited days as “filler” until we get to the “perfect” ones, not knowing if that day will never come because we will not allow for it. As though we are scared of it. As though I am scared of letting my shoulders fully drop and of taking pictures even if it is not my “good side” and having fun taking them anyways—as though I do not have to prove I am allowed to enjoy life even though I am flawed.
My candle and I now shudder with one another as I watch the wax melt. Tomorrow, I will become a past version of myself, and so today, I am going to use my favourite perfume and put on an outfit of mine I really like despite not yet having the “perfect” jewellery to wear with it—and should I come across a really good sticker, I am going to use it.