Journal Entry December 31, 2012
Thank God the last day of the worst year of my life is finally here. Will 2013 be even worse? Please God, not have it so.
After so many years of trying to be perfect, I realize now I will never get anywhere near attaining perfection. And yet I am a perfectionist. The incongruous aspect of the situation is almost laughable. I strive for an ideal I don’t believe in. The world around me, however, and the people in it, seem perfect to me.
I have always considered myself to be the Purple Sheep in my oh so perfect family. Not black. Black is too sombre, and, well, black. Purple presents options in shades of complexity. I am the person that is different. The one that doesn’t fit in. Things just don’t add up where I am concerned.
I think self-confidence gets eroded away when you are surrounded by people who you don’t think you are like. Or who you don’t feel you belong with. That is the loneliest of feelings. To be a part of something you don’t feel you are a part of. I am a mangy, stray dog amidst a pack full of pristine purebreds. Who are well fed and well cared for. Who are perfect in appearance and manner. Who know they have the right to command a presence in their own lives, and the lives of those around them. But I hang back with my tail between my legs and my head bent down in submission. No wonder a sense of self-respect, or a positive self-concept is impossible if those around me are different than what I perceive myself to be. And my perception of them is that they are perfect, something I’ve already decided is an impossibility for me.
Will I EVER fit in? Will I ever be anything but a lone, flea-ridden mutt, traversing the earth in a solitary path that leads to nowhere? Round and round I go, cutting deep ruts in the ground that I perpetually revisit each time I circle back, searching for a place of peace that never comes.
December 19, 2016
I am a little lost today, as I reread my December 31st journal entry. The pain of those days, and the acute sense that I did not belong to anyone or anything, let alone myself, looms over me like an ominous spirit. The ghosts of my past lick at me like the flames threatening to devour the logs in the fireplace. I am left feeling unsettled and empty inside.
Although now I know that I have my place in the world. Defined perhaps, by the things I do, as opposed to the things I am. But I believe I will arrive at a time when I can embrace who I am and love the person I have become.
The quest for perfection is long since dead. Although it was not laid to rest without considerable struggle and epic hardship along the way, it remains a distant myth I once believed in. The idea that anyone is perfect is ludicrous to me now. I can accept that perfection belongs to the snowflakes and the beauty of Mother Nature. People do not have a rightful place in that realm.
I also have a place in my family, although at times I still endeavour to define myself within the confines of that institution. Possibly I am not alone in trying to navigate through the complicated intricacies that make up the entity of ‘family’. The ever changing flux of dynamics that makes families so interesting and so real. And so imperfect. I might not always be in tune with the cacophonous strains of my family’s exuberant existence, but I know I do belong, imperfections and all!