What is Perfection? What is it not?
Reminiscing and analyzing the very dark journey towards perfection and how it changes you.
I was born nerdy, loud and with an uncompromising love for art- the cumulative power of which led me to colouring outside the lines all the time. The more liberating this was, the more frenzied the adults got- What’s with this kid? She seems to be fine, otherwise.
The social position.
‘I am a perfectionist.’
In CVs and dating profiles alike, this phrase is a lewd epidemic. What does it mean?
That they don’t screw up? That they’re not doing a half-hearted job, as nobody should? That they wouldn’t dare to burn out? In that case it should read as: ‘I am a neurotic, paranoid, disillusioned hamster that will do all it can to not disappoint you.’
Perfection is the act of having it all together and then going the extra mile- my much older cousins has achieved this and I was next.
‘Your turn to show the world, the Ghosh family makes brilliant kids.’
That one remark from my aunt struck me without my permission. Perfection- a word so sweet it rhymes with confection- yet, just refusing to attach yourself with it, implies you’re indolent. Soon enough, I found I could settle for nothing less.
Perfect, I told myself. No excuses. Even at your lowest, you have to be perfect. Aiming at and achieving the highest possible goal, despite the odds, will make everything will fall into place. Such messed up self-talk.
It was all about balance- nice enough for the good kids and fun enough for the trouble makers, sexual enough to be half-slut-half-prude and involved enough to be an effortless all-rounder. So in the nine schools I attended, I had more shots at it than most people- I earned it almost always. Every time I reached the shore of my perfect self, I swam through a sea of mounting anxiety which, incidentally, served as my map. And so I ignored the brewing whirlpools that did not show up on the radar.
Once peers and adults were used to my perfection, they moved on but expected no less. Until one day, a dread surfaced my gut- What if I failed this time? What would it be like? Halfheartedly- I actually did- and I did not pick myself up right away.
I was back on the radar. Grades not good enough, too rebellious to be taken seriously and too much of an oddball to behave ‘normal’ like the other kids. Now there was a remarkable disconnect between where I actually was and where people thought I was. In public opinion, my downward spiral was exponential. In mine, it was confusing because… I did everything right and yet wasn’t perfect long enough. More anxiety.
And the cycle goes on…
Anxiety stuck around. I clung to it. As you function through anxiety, you not only dumb yourself down, you actually ‘numb’ yourself out. Not only do you magnify your failures, you begin to discount your achievements- because it doesn’t match up to perfection.
You are calm because you’re conflicted between wanting to care for yourself and yet not daring to.
I watched my life unfold. Through the waning teenage years to early adulthood when you rediscover yourself, through college when you develop your goals, right into my mid twenties, I was just not available to myself.
These are incredible years, where calculated risks can lead to tremendous growth and great dinner table conversation. And I was just… not there.
All for the fear of achieving anything less than perfect. The perfection paralysis.
My decisions were based on parental and peer pressure. My fear, palpable. My heart, in nothing.
Simultaneously, I undertook substantially large tasks- ace the Master’s degree because everyone should, land a great job that pays cause money is power and fight marital pressure from family, even if it meant standing alone forever. I went on dates, holidays and even got a lot fitter. This silver of tough love I showed myself allowed me to access my resilience.
You can be stuck in the perfection paralysis for very long, undisturbed. The easiest way to pick yourself up is by simply showing up. Not necessarily actively participating but just being present with all you have.
The walk through the storm is life-changing. You lose respect for people you thought you couldn’t do without. You find things unique to you that you had never even considered. The way out is littered with loss and heartbreak and a handful of people who actually see through you. It gets better and so does your judgement. For instance, I knew I was dangerously close to perfect each time I heard-
‘ Why can’t you just be like the other girls?’
The way out is acceptance, over and over.
The storm is only as powerful as you let it be.
Recently, I met a person who opened up my world view like nobody ever had- it was unbelievable. Our energies were so much in sync that perfection itself would have failed to keep up. Even with mutual respect, zero expectation, and a million ways to stay connected, something was not quite working out. Circumstances, timing, Karma? Oh, well. Is that tragic? Perhaps. Is that reason enough to be bitter and go into shutdown? No way.
Because it is an imperfect world. Often we don’t get our just desserts. Other times, we get way more.
People are inherently flawed. They fall in love too reluctantly, react too hastily and are not always equipped to behave the way we expect. Despite these differences, people have collaborated to create ice-cream, read the planetary movements and fill the internet with cats- all very perfect things- with room for improvement.
Things can be analyzed as perfect but people are not things.
What one person thinks isn’t worth mentioning about himself may save someone else from the worst decision of his life. That’s how perfection works- when seemingly unrelated things fall into place for absolutely no foreseeable reason. And for that, you have to show up.
While spring cleaning last summer, I found a coloring assignment from preschool. A few tiny diagrams illustrating the life of a minuscule seed from germination to a skinny seedling. Indeed, brown, green and blue spilled all over the absurdly drawn info-graphic, that someone thought may be of interest to a child gone wild on crayons.
‘You always refused to color inside the lines.’
Oh, parents never give up.
I play safe with my CV and spend an obscene amount of time rewriting it. I was still not brave enough to admit I like coloring outside the lines. Here’s what I wrote, instead:
‘Being a creative, I don’t think we ever catch up with perfection. So, I don’t chase it.’
