Perfect

I saw a show today where someone said that perfection is only measured within a frame of imperfection, and it made me think. I have recently started on a journey of trying to do a little more for myself, more counselling, more painting, more things to throw me off this path of dwelling on every little thing that has happened to me in the last decade, and I gotta tell you, it’s hard. It’s easy for me to blend in with the crowd and be the party girl, that’s what they call me, “they” being my friends, the people I work with, people at school. I am the girl who turns up to a test rottenly hung over and gets an A, and they all say they wish they could do that, but I wish for nothing more than to be able to turn up to a test without having to get drunk the night before because I am terrified that I wont get a perfect score. Somewhere over the years I have equated getting anything less than the “perfect” score as my abuser having some kind of control over that.

I open my garage and there are stacks of paintings and drawings that I could not bring myself to show anyone because they didn’t look perfect enough, not like the ones I sell, not like the ones in the gallery. But perhaps those ones are the perfect expression of who I am. I know I have mentioned here before that I also have quite a heavy handful of body image issues, for a whole lot of reasons, I could list one million things down to the tiniest hair on my body that I just don’t like, but if you asked me who I was trying to look good for I couldn’t give you an honest answer, because I don’t have one.

For a long, long time I have measured myself against perfection, which doesn’t even exist. It is kinda refreshing to finally reach acceptance on that, you know? I think I might paint that today