Imperfection

None of the people I love are objectively ‘perfect’.

A random sample shows one who sometimes has mood swings that could shift continents (his name is N, you may have heard of him). One who is extremely gentle, innocent and has a sometime alarming inability to cope with certain forms of pressure, (which is one of the things he has me for). One has a temper, and an addictive personality. One goes into total denial about things she can’t cope with and then shuts down when they occur anyway. One is too scared to be brave (though I am seeing signs of a change occurring). One is very classbound, and something of a snob. One suffers from depression. One is the most wonderful loving, giving, regal, accomplished and glorious woman you could wish to meet, but has the most astonishing ability to select the most maladjusted men you could ever wish to meet. Blah blah. In short my loved ones are people.

I happily love them regardless of these imperfections. I accept them as human which is after all a chronic condition of inherent imperfection.

And they too love me, despite the fact I am messy as sin, and more imperfect than many of them. For me, being seen and loved as I am at that time; not through the filter of some imaginary future point where I will have accomplished whatever I am working on, am better, more serene, more whole, less fractured, braver, more settled, slimmer or with shinier hair; is an important part of being recognised, of being seen, of being loved.  I don’t feel I have to pretend to be ‘perfect’ or any better than I am to my loved ones. They know I am fragile as fine crystal in some ways, and as resilient as diamond in others (in a Vickers hardness test way rather than a fifties film star way though, sadly - see above re shinier hair. A diamond after all is essentially just charcoal that's handled stress exceptionally well). They know my weaknesses as they do my strengths, and when I throw myself into a mission that is important to me they scoop me up when I stagger bloody out the other side even if they think I should have quit it ages back, because they know me.



Diamond, sparkly, fractured, and no shiny hair.

So, for me, my lack of perfection is something that I don’t want to have to hide in a close relationship. I am confident enough to know my ‘good’ bits are easily admirable to some, so it’s having someone love the complete package that is ‘me’, or at least the bits I elect to reveal (or reveal unintentionally) at that time, that means ‘love’ to me. I’m talking love in all it’s forms here by the way.

I’d go as far as to say that when people start declaring they consider me a great wonder it means very little when I know they just know the shiny parts of me. See me under a heap of books on the bed, surrounded by coffee mugs, mess, screwed up balls of paper and tissues, and cereal bar wrappers then we'll talk.

So, while I would never pretend I am in fond of transparency for myself, I do think that love, whatever form it may be, needs to be based on much more than just shiny stuff.

It's liberating being a whole, messy person. When I look at people who try to show their best selves all the time I just find myself thinking they must be exhausted.