Accepting Imperfect

This picture has zero relevance to the post, I just liked it because I miss snow, winter, and holiday happiness. And because I always feel the need to have a picture with a post.

Recently, I had to write a personal narrative for me writing course. It could be about anything, which was difficult for me because I don't like not having direction. However, I'm beginning to appreciate this and use this type of writing as reflection. My professor is extremely flexible and let's us change our writing whenever. My first draft was about something completely different than what I ended up turning in. In the end, I was really proud of my narrative. I was able to express things that I had always thought about and pour out my heart. I feel like it's sort of cheating when I blog something that I already wrote it, but hey, it's your first time reading this! 

The first draft was basically an elaboration of my college essay and I really was sick of the topic, so I changed things up a bit. I thought about a paper I wrote my senior year for Ms. Joyner. We had to read a chapter from the book, "The Things They Carried" and then write about the things we carried. As I was thinking about it, I realized we as human beings carry so much. A lot of what we carry is internal and since we deal with it daily, we forget about it, as it becomes a part of us. The issue is, we need to deal with it, especially when it derails us at times. I focused on a part of me that I have never analyzed before and the end result was a therapeutic release. The final draft ended up being about 6 pages long, so I will share a condensed version. So here's a piece of me, that maybe you share too. //

    One winter day when I was in third grade, my brother slipped on a patch of ice. We were getting off the school bus and walking towards the kindergarten line, where I dropped him off everyday before heading to my own grade level line near the bus loop.  He was an especially small boy, just skin and bones my mom always joked, and his large backpack seemed to eat him up.  I saw the large sheet of ice and began to cautiously walk over it, but my brother kept walking with the excitement and energy only a kindergartner has when headed to school.  That gusto, however, resulted in him slipping and falling backwards.  The massive backpack provided cushioning, but the fall was still hard.  After a second, he began to cry as the impact overcame his small body.  I searched frantically for any adult to help, tears in my eyes.  A friendly aide came over, helped my brother up and brought him to his line.  It was not my brother that was crying anymore though, it was me.
 
I am the carrier of many burdens.  They fester inside of me like parasites, eating away until there is nothing left. These burdens though, are completely self inflicted.  They are never my own problems or responsibilities, but those of whom I care most about. I unintentionally choose to take them on, even though I am never asked to.  It is a complete curse that feels impossible to break.
  
I blame it on the root of all evil: perfectionism.  For as long as I can remember I have been a perfectionist, the poster child for Type A personality.  When I was younger, I recall seeing books on my mom’s nightstand all about raising a perfectionist child and how to help them accept imperfection.  It’s something that I have worked hard and long on, trying to be happy with life as it is.  I can confidentially say that I have accepted imperfect for me.  I am as far from perfection as you can get; I didn’t get straight As throughout high school, I’ve lost friends, I’m not very good at sports, I get zits, I spill food on my clothes, I have a habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. The list goes on and on, and I am okay with that.  But I have this burning desire inside of me to make the people I love most’s lives perfect.  They never ask for me to do this, I simply feel the need to do this.  If I don’t, I am plagued with regret. I’m a pleaser. Even though I have come to terms with an imperfect life for myself, I cannot fathom that for my loved ones.
  
 My love is something fierce and deep. I associate this with being the oldest child, the natural caretaker. At any occasion in which someone I care about is worried, stressed, or in pain, I take it on with them.  I can’t seem to simply care and be there; I consume the same emotion.  There is the constant feeling of a brick in my stomach, weighing me down. When my brother gets a bad math grade, I feel the despair he feels and think of how I could make it better.  When my mom is upset, I feel the same sadness and the responsibility to make her feel better.  When my dad is stressed about work, I am stressed out over his stress. When my sister didn’t make the varsity dance team, I felt her sorrow.  I have been able to find so much joy in my own life, so shouldn’t I help others do the same?
   
I think back to the day my brother slipped on the ice.  I felt that it was my fault he fell because I did not warn him to walk slowly and carefully.  I am filled with remorse when I know that I am the cause a twist of fate in someone else’s life. There’s a special kind of anxiety I carry because of this.  I’m beginning to realize that while I’m no longer seeking perfection in my own life, I am still a perfectionist in my urge to control the little details that might make someone else’s life seem perfect.  I struggle as I feel subject to making sure others are happy, putting this inessential task before my own happiness.  What is this pathological need to carry others’ problems and why do I have it?  Sometimes I can’t help but think there’s something in my family’s genes that makes us tend to worry more about others than ourselves.  I come from a long line of caretakers of others’ needs. My grandma once was sliced off a chunk of her finger in preparation for my aunt’s baby shower and had to be dragged to the hospital to get stitches; she didn’t want to cause an issue and take the attention off of my expectant aunt. My mom sacrifices so much for other people that sometimes she forgets to take care of herself.  The problem is, I see why this is ultimately bad for me but I don’t want to stop. I feel selfish if I only think about me and my needs.  Are we not supposed to put others before ourselves?  Does that not go against what many of us are taught at a young age?  This desire is like a drug that is destroying me on the inside but I cannot stop using.  Who doesn’t need another person to care and be there for them?  Don’t the messy parts of life feel a little bit better when you don’t feel alone? The internal battle wages on.
   
For one of my best friend’s fifteenth birthday, I planned a surprise party.  It would have all of her favorite people wearing special shirts designed just for the party, all of her favorite activities including a piñata filled with her favorite candies, and all of her favorite foods, featuring her favorite type of cake, spice cake, made from scratch.  Everything was going swimmingly; she didn’t have a clue about the party, everyone was getting there early, and there were several helping hands.  Her arrival time was slowly creeping up as I had just pulled the cake out of the oven. It had risen perfectly and smelled like heaven.  All that was left was for me to flip the cake out of the bundt pan, add a simple glaze, and then everything would be ready!  I got the special cake plate ready and flipped the pan over.  It was then that I learned that you should not try to remove a cake from its pan when it is hot out of the oven.  I lifted the pan and  a crumby pile of cake was exposed.  Half of the cake survived the removal intact, but the other half was a mess.  I began to cry because the cake was ruined and obviously so was the party.  I fled the scene, while my mom and friends fixed the cake up.  The party went on, my friend was beyond surprised, and she didn’t even notice my messy cake.
   
This was a pivotal moment on my conquest of taking care of other’s happiness.  There was a series of “aha moments” that made me see life with a little more clarity. My friend’s birthday was not ruined because her cake wasn’t in perfect bundt form, while instead it was one of her favorite birthdays because of the gesture of kindness itself.  There was this light in my friend’s eyes the whole night, illuminated by the delight of the party.  There was never ending laughter and smiling that evening, as everyone enjoyed not the little details, like the hats that had letters painted on to spell out “happy birthday” or the homemade fortune cookies with clever, unique fortunes for each guest, but the presence of good friends.  I realized that I could chase perfection for the rest of my life and I would never catch it. While it was a bitter pill to swallow, with it came sweet relief that I could make mistakes and still bring my loved ones happiness. Bad things happen to everyone but we can’t blame ourselves for everything. It is not what happens, but how we react, how we choose to go, how we take what the universe hands us. Over time, I have been able to detach myself from situations that are not my own, but still be supportive. This unattainable, big dream that we call “perfection” has been planted in our heads and we feel responsible to take it on for not only ourselves, but others. In reality though, it’s quite simple; perfection is the overwhelming joy that we can live with imperfection. We can make mistakes and life will still merrily go on.  There will always be a part of me that wants to play a role in creating others’ happiness and I will always care a little bit too much, but I know now that the weight of others’ worlds does not rest solely on my shoulders. //

xo
Hannah

Sorry for such a long post. I am very impressed if you stuck with me and read it all! Thanks if you did :)