Perfection disguises itself as a rosy red apple, sweet to the touch but filled with a bitterness and toxicity that can course through your veins, and reduce you to a former relic of the person you’re supposed to be.
Culturally, perfectionism is endemic of a society that has lost touch with its core values. To be perfect is to be inhuman and thus we must critique perfectionism under the same microscope as we would a chronic illness or mass infection. Perfectionism is a public health crisis and also more destructively, a disillusioned image of what humanity should strive towards. It is a flashing amber that if fed can turn into a fire and move destructively from person to person reducing everything in its path to waste.
A western ideal, the aspiration towards perfection is manufactured in the minds of marketers and salespeople. Our bodies become the canvas upon which profits can be made and abuse of power can be extrapolated. It ultimately is a power game, as in order to create perfectionism, the idea must exist that people are somehow imperfect the way that they are. Beauty companies manufacture flaws in our biology which can be read as opportunities to extract monetary gain, as we’re exploited and even worse monetized into a type of commodity fetishism. I use the word fetish here as the body is sexualized and made inanimate in order to package and sell it as a means of capitalist gain.
The truth of perfectionism is that it doesn’t exist. When we remove ourselves from the exterior world and look inwards, it’s telling that we begin to find our own answers to some of our most burning questions. The oldest of these existential questions is “who am I?” and most peculiarly the answer is often made up of forces that lay outside of perfectionism. For me I found the following:
1. I am a son
2. I am a friend
3. I feel things deeply
4. Kindness is my virtue
5. My insecurities connect me to those who love me most deeply
In none of these findings would I use the word “perfect”. I am a son, but I make mistakes that annoy my parents every day. I am a friend, but sometimes I say or do things that cause my friends pain. I feel things deeply and this leads to moments of great elation but also periods of unwanted contemplation. Kindness is my virtue but I’m often struck by the realization that the world is often unkind. My insecurities connect me to those I love, but appear as demons at times when my energy or sense of self is low. In none of these areas am I “perfect”.
The reason I can’t find perfection is because it doesn’t exist. I know this inherently but find myself striving towards it like a horse sent out with a pre-planned destination. But I get lost every time and only when I remove my blinkers can I begin to forge my own path. In those moments I feel strong and laugh at the very idea of perfectionism.
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