A Farewell To Perfection

I have always had very high expectations for life. I didn’t always realize it. I only thought about what I didn’t have but I wanted to have. I didn’t know that I was morbidly perfect. Perfection reminded me of a perfect life, perfect character, perfect work, perfect fulfillment, perfect home, perfect partner and perfect family.

I never had such a life. Hence, it didn’t even occur to me to consider myself a perfectionist. It was enough to enter my house to find out that I am not such person. I would fail any test of a white glove.

I was disgusted with myself for years and everything that happened to me. So there was no place for perfection in my life.

If it weren’t for writing, I would probably still be convinced that this term doesn’t apply to me. Writing made me ask other questions than before and look for answers in a different way. I started to like two words: “ NEW” and “DIFFERENT”. I started to like change as an integral process of life. I decided to find out why I had acted in the same way all the time, similarly expecting new results. The results, however, were still miserable. At all costs I wanted to change it. So I decided to meet with psychologist.

After the first meeting it seemed to me that it would be easy. We’ll talk. I will tell about my thoughts. I will throw away my troubles. However, after several meetings, I had the impression that one hour spent with a psychologist can be compared with the working hour in a mine or quarry. Although it was only burying in your psyche on the couch. Well. No one said it would be easy.

Already at the first meeting, I learned that I was a perfectionist. How is it? It is impossible! Look at my purse, my desk, deadlines, unfinished affairs, unpainted nails, my hair in disarray and my messy house.

It turned out that you can have a perfect attitude to life, which does not reflect the perfect glow outside. For me perfection concerns the requirements and expectations of myself and others whom neither me nor others are able to fulfill. Dissatisfaction guaranteed. A sense of happiness? I don’t know what it is.

When I discovered writing for myself, a new stage in my life began. One could say that the greater force led me further and further. To places previously unavailable to me. To places where I had to allow myself for mistakes. To places where I had to be imperfect.

I started writing. And what I wrote was not perfect. However, I did it further and further. And it’s still not perfect. And I don’t know if I want it to be perfect.

I began to enjoy the very process of writing. I love the whole sequence of events. From the idea of ​​posting, by giving it the title, developing topic, up to throwing away unnecessary words (I love it) and creating the form before publication.

I think that thanks to my own imperfection, I write. The shortcomings, the desire for change, some defects are my driving force in writing. I try to be honest in writing. And I value the same attitude in writing of others. I am convinced that if we were all perfect, the Medium would cease to exist. Most articles would lose their justification.

The writer can’t be perfect. Can you imagine a novel about perfect heroes? It would end sooner than it began. We are rather writing about what touches and moves us. Can someone be moved by perfection? I doubt it.

Drawbacks, nuances, details, inaccuracies, doubts, conflicts, struggles, changes are the driving forces of most books and our texts.

It’s time to say goodbye to perfection. Final.

And on the basis of everything imperfect to develop what is beautiful and authentic in us.

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