True Life: I'm Not Perfect

This post first appeared on jazifresh.com

I blame my need to appear perfect at all times on being brought up in some pretty chaotic circumstances. My childhood logic: if everything around me must be fucked up, let me not contribute to the mayhem. So I obsessed over my grades. Behaving well. Not embarrassing my mama in public. Making sure my sister didn't embarrass my mama in public (lol, love you, babycakes). We were broke. I understood this very early. So I sometimes lied and said I didn't want anything out of the store, especially if it was a toy, when I really did. I said I didn't want to take dance classes anymore once I realized my mom was breaking her back to afford it for both of us. I was born with a thumb deformity that I worked hard to hide (at times I still find myself doing this) or at least not talk about very much. I was President and CEO of Well Actually, Inc. At 4, I was riding my grandfather's back around the living room when he finally said "this horse is tired". I'm told I corrected my grandfather, a very tall and burly man, saying he was actually more like an elephant. My family found it quite amusing, my meaningless factoids and correcting everyone's grammar. I asked for encyclopedias and animal fact cards for Christmas. Not because I found any of it particularly interesting but because I wanted to know the most about everything and have people fawn over me for it. I was good at a lot of different things because I made a point to be. Anything to draw away from the imperfections of reality.It wasn't until 3rd grade that I could make friends that could even stand me. Only after testing into the Gifted & Talented program and discovering I was no longer the smartest kid in the room did I even start to mellow out and even then I maintained a very controlled manner about myself. We watched Ricki Lake in the afternoons and I'd tsk loudly and shake my head about pregnant teens that were shouting at their parents on the screen. Always careful to reassure whoever was in the room, especially my mom, that that would never be me. Being "a statistic" was on a long list of things I, a perfect child, would not do. I looooooved school because I was supposed to love school. And boys were 'yuck' because adults liked when you said that. The only thing I really really loved were books. I loved people. Everything else was out of obedience or for appearances.Middle school humbles the fuck out even the best of us. There, I dialed down my obnoxiousness even more. Found out I could make people laugh. Would do so even if it meant roasting myself (I was gonna roast myself about my high-water pants before I let someone else go in, I'd cry when I got home but still lol). I let go a little but still felt pressure as the eldest grandchild to lead by example and not fuck up. For teen Jazi, this meant I indulged my vices in private and continued making good grades. I was "smart" about being dumb and I made my way through high school mostly unscathed. Perfectionism hadn't deserted me yet. It was in college when I finally learned the art of self-reflection and the perfect fortress I'd built around my persona finally began to crumble away.I work on me every day. I have to. I am not perfect. I used to say so a lot but I usually followed the phrase with something I found remarkable or brilliant about myself. I realize how much the need to be and appear perfect has held me back. Stopped me from really growing. Damaged relationships. I'm almost 30 and only in recent years am I able to admit fault without attempting to dull the blow or reason out how my transgression, whatever it was, wasn't that bad. I could write a book on the ways I suppressed aspects of myself in the hopes of appearing to be the perfect partner (I probably will). I was a shell filled with all the things I thought I needed to be to have a perfectly happy life. It happens that none of those things is who I really am. I denied myself things I now know I enjoy simply because it'd make me seem less-than-perfect to admit I wanted. Good sex. Freedom to say what I really think. Cussing. I love cussing. GOOD FUCKING SEX. Ratchetry. Deep, honest conversations. Ugly laughing. It took some deep digging but I know I'm not a lady and I'm not classy. That's not a bad thing I battle anxiety. And for things that may seem weird to anyone else but it's the real me. It's been hard to say that out loud or talk to people about it so sometimes I don't. But it's been huge for me even to admit that, even just to myself. It sucks but it doesn't make me worthless. I have a long list of things about me that deviate from the ideal. I really didn't write this to highlight those things. I'm not perfect and I don't have to be. That's been a relief for me. Freeing. I don't say it because I need to say that to be humble or because it's what really good people believe. I say it boldly without caveat because owning my imperfections has allowed to me finally know and love myself as I really am. The real me. It's been the most beautiful thing.