I am a perfectionist.
I say this not to brag. Indeed, lurking under the surface is great insecurity, the need to impress, the need to be taken seriously. Although objectively one might see many skills, I nevertheless suffer from underachievement, and worse, "underconfidence."
When I was 10, we moved away from my country of childhood to a totally foreign domain, where customs were new and, well, foreign. In several instances, those new customs were none too kind. I did not speak the language, and if you know anything about children of that age, they can be very cruel. None took me kindly under his or her wing and walked me through the obstacles; no one coached me in correct pronunciation; no one taught me the ways of society. Even my school teachers were cruel, as I recall, addressing me by my last name, not as "Miss So-and-So," just "So-and-So, did you do your homework," or "So-and-So, stand up and tell the class..." Even at graduation, my class teacher, while congratulating me on winning one of the prizes, still called me "So-and-So." I may have been a child still, but it stung. Even then.
Is it any wonder I've always tried to be perfect?
My striving for perfection certainly did not begin and end in Paris. I then went to a boarding school, where I was even more isolated from any protection I might have enjoyed from my mother. Mockery of my pronunciation was relentless. I did not fit in, did not know the right games, the right words, did not have the right friends.
One would think that overcoming childhood mockery would not involve swinging the pendulum in the opposite direction. And yet, in the mind of a child, it may be what I tried to do. The reasoning being, I'll show them! If I excel, they won't have anything to ridicule. Of course, life isn't so linear.
Time passed, and I left the boarding school, then moved to yet another foreign country as a budding teenager, again having to learn a new language, again trying to fit into a new society. Again, my strategy was to try my best. It didn't help that I was blessed with a very strict mother who had little sympathy for my travails. I was forbidden to cry, and thus the stoic, stiff upper lip developed.
This might develop into a very long saga were it not for the bottom line: Not only does perfection not exist, it is probably a bad idea to seek as a goal. It is not a panacea, but a source of anguish. Since it is so illusive to begin with, all the striving and planning can only lead to frustration. Like immortality.
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ReplyDeleteI am a perfectionist.
ReplyDeleteI say this only in part, to brag. Indeed, lurking beneath the consciousness is Jung's great un-conscious, the need to express, the need to know, and be known as real. Although objectively one might see many aspects of the one Self, I, nevertheless, suffers from a need to overachieve, and worse, "overconfidence".
When I was 10, we (the many aspects of my self) moved away from my mother's home, to the land of a foreign dominatrix, where customs were new, foreign, sometimes kind and often not. The years prior are a blur, seeing me moving around quite consistently from birth, literally - it was a whirlwind of emotional saga that a lot of kids grow up within - I wonder if my parents planned it like that.
I did not speak people's language, by the time I was old enough to begin really expressing itself. If you know anything about children at that age, you know people hardly have a clue. None took me under their wing, rather they sent me to a couple of mental hospitals to find out why I talked so funny. They walked me through obstacles when I didn't toe their line. They coached me very directly in what to say to impress them and let me out for good behavior. They addressed me however they liked. Is it any wonder I enjoyed more the company of those who knew how to smoke a good joint? Why on earth would my father feel he had to call the police over a bag of weed? Perhaps they worried over the newborn in the house. But I, too, was still a child. And it fucking stung.
Is it any wonder I went in search of Enlightenment?
My search began in Miami, in the dream world, the astral, the collective unconscious. After a harrowing escape from my teens, I sent myself to boarding school at an ulpan in Israel where I was introduced to the holy script of Hebrew in a very new fashion and told of ancient mysteries of God and Self in a further mysterious system called Cabala.
One would think that overcoming childhood dramas was what life was all about and would demand a completely new direction. In the mind of a child,that is precisely what I prescribed for myself and took myself even further east to the islands of Japan, and then the foothills of the himalayas. The reasoning being, I'll find them! The ones who discovered the secret of life before me. The ones who know the answer-how to escape this life of suffering and achieve perfection. Verily life is linear, with tangents.And directed to a large extant by the will.
Time passed; life became one great boarding school. Seeds planted early on, blossomed in my teens to convince me of my immortality. I have learned new and ancient languages, and science and number to boot! My strategy was to try my best and I did. It actually helped to be blessed with a mother who didn't seem to recognize me or what I was about. I became stiff as steel, I'd reckon.
I could write a LOT more surely, for I too have grown fond of the word and her uses, but let me end with the bottom line of the great poem this has become. Perfection does exist, depending of course on your definition of perfection. It is a good idea to seek it as a goal. It is a panacea, the key to happiness. It is certainly illusive, because of all the striving and the planning of that other aspect of Self, me. That dude's frustrating. But he is mortal. I am not.
I love you, mom.