On Not Being Perfect

I have spent considerable time in the past 30 years in therapy, analysis, and self-reflection, examining dreams, my relationships with people in the external world and with the “little people of the psyche.”  I’ve also practiced meditation, participated in worship at churches and synagogues, and had an active interest in the spiritual life.  In short, I’ve tried to become more aware, hoping that in the process I might become a better, more “whole” person.

Of course better already presents difficulties for it suggests that my original self, if there is such a thing, was flawed:  it needed improvement.  It’s a moral judgment. I’m comparing myself to some ideal, thinking I should be able to handle conflicts more maturely, not be disturbed by the minutiae of daily life.  I can’t help thinking of the measurements some Christians use that show a person’s spiritual evolvement based on evidence of the holy spirit’s presence:  patience, tolerance, wisdom, etc.  I fail.

I fail because I’m not ideal, I’m human, and to be human is to be flawed.  It seems. I don’t trust people who appear to be unruffled by the things that bother me, who are able to help others and extend themselves endlessly. Or so it seems.

To expect we will transcend the pressures of daily life (in my case, all of the rewards and problems that come with being a mother and step-parent) seems not only unrealistic, it’s unhealthy.    Better to sizzle and fume, to let others know what we’re feeling, than to play the saintly role. It isn’t human.