It hurts to be imperfect

Did you hear a popular song from 9 to 5 musical? It goes like this:

“You gotta know what to do
You gotta do it in a hurry

Gotta hustle
Gotta bustle
Gotta scoot
You gotta scurry

‘Cause we got no time to fool around around here.”

Recently it feels like this song is a hymn of my life. Running around like a hamster in a wheel. Get up – get dressed – run to work – back from work – sleep and start all over. One thousand things to do and a constant, nagging worry of forgetting something important. Run run run, as if my whole depended on it. Go to the post-office and send cards to my friends – check. Wash my clothes, clean the kitchen, prepare a meal – check. Remember to pay the bills, don’t forget to buy the bread, arrange a meeting, send some emails. Don’t forget to dry-clean your coat. Take your medicine, or else you will feel awful once again. Remember you still have 3 extra important books to read, 5 psychological exercises to make, an article to write and… I’m running out of tea and cat food, oh dear. We need to buy a new fridge because the old one will soon fall apart. And oh, I have to finish the drawings, study some French, learn some poetry by heart and install the new anti-virus. Did I forget something? Surely I did, I always forget something.

I’m always running late, I’m always stressed and lately I’m more and more depressed because of it all. I try my best – I truly do. I try my best not to succumb to unhealthy food, and to go to sleep earlier, and to study all of my 6 languages, and to read clever books. I try my best to cover the circles under my eyes with a good concealer, and to use hand cream regularly,  and to keep the flat looking good. I try not to spend so much time on the Internet or playing games, not to waste money on things I don’t really need. I try to be more concentrated at work, I try to be more patient with annoying people. I try to be a better version of myself. I try so, so very hard, again and again, to be more perfect but I’m still the same ugly imperfect me. I’m tired, exasperated, sad and angry with myself.

Whatever I do, it’s never enough. And I’m so lost that I don’t even know if it’s really not enough or if I’m just placing the bar too high. The only thing I know is that more and more often I catch myself crying. Crying over that distant and unattainable me, the one who is always on time, always looks good, goes to gym two times a week and is always nice, understanding and smiling. The one who would never eat a whole bar of chocolate in one go, who would never get upset over unimportant things at work, who would never spend her whole weekend sleeping and would never make any stupid mistakes. The one with the perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect body. And perfect will-power. The one who is organized, and tidy, and goal-oriented, and energetic, and in full control of her life.

Why can’t I ever be that person? Or why can’t I be content with what I have at least? I wonder if I’m destined to suffer like that until the day I die. Going over what I could be, what I could have been and what I’m, for some reason, not and probably will never be.

About these ads