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Perfection is Imperfect
My entire life is perfect; perfect family, perfect friends, perfect house and perfect car. My makeup was always just right and my clothes were always designer.
I talked to the right people, ignored the others. I got A’s in all subjects, but still went to all the right parties. Everything about me was just right. Perfect.
I was the one that everyone loved. The one that was cheeky to teachers but that made me their favorite. The one that has the parents that were oblivious to what they do when they go out. I’m the one that makes no mistakes, the smart one, the pretty one, the one that a lot of girls are jealous of.
The only thing that isn't perfect is my room. It is a mess. The dressing table had left over food and nail varnish hat had spilled all over it. The floor was covered with dirty clothes that I no longer wear. Memories were hidden under my bed or on top of my wardrobe, left to live in the dust. It’s my small space of imperfection.
I walked into my room, today and smelt the musty smell that I have become accustomed to. I looked around at the shoes and the make-up and the clothes. I didn't feel the need to put together outfits and check my hair as I normally do. Something just felt wrong. They didn't feel like they were mine. I walked into this room and it felt like some stranger’s. It was suddenly wrong. It suddenly wasn't me.
I went downstairs to find my mother in the kitchen, my dad in garden and my sister playing with our pet dog, Hammy. They were all in the right places, just like they always are. Later, we will eat tea as a family and my parents will make general chit-chat. I will then go out with my friends and they will play board games with my sister, just like they do every night.
"Mama, something doesn't feel right. Have you been into my room?" She hardly looked at me, only acknowledged my presence by a little smile as she carried on cooking.
"Poppy, I wouldn't go into that room if you paid me. Have you ever thought about tidying it up a little?" If she hasn't moved anything then what felt so wrong up there?
I went back up the stairs and once again walked into the musty smell. Something sticking out from the side of my wardrobe caught my eye. I knelt beside it and pulled.
It was a photo. It was me three years ago, before I started secondary school. I had lanky, flat hair that was a dull brown color and really bad acne. I was wearing my geeky, large-rimmed glasses and clothes that totally didn't match. Then there was the boy with his arm around me. James. He looked like he loved me, spots and all. He saw past the looks. I remember the feel of him when he hugged me, the smell of his skin. I also remember the day he died. That was the day I decided to change.
Tears started to roll down my cheeks. Memories that I thought were long gone suddenly resurfaced. I dug further behind the wardrobe and found an old teddy that a distant aunt had given me, then my favorite childhood book. I kept on going till I had pulled everything out. I then moved on to under my bed.
I cleared away all the clothes and make-up and piled the memories into a pile in the middle of my room. So many memories that made me want to cry and laugh. They were all there, all visible. The way they should be.
I completely cleared my room of the "perfect" me. I put up old posters and placed teddies back on my bed. The last thing was the photo that I hung on the wall so when I woke up I would see it and it would remind me of everything. It felt more me, less like me trying to be someone I’m not.
Perfection isn't perfect. Nothing can be perfect. When I was "perfect" all I was doing was hiding away who I truly was. Perfection is in fact imperfect. I don't believe that the old me was perfect. It wasn't me. The new me is, well the old me resurfaced. I haven't exactly gone back to the spotty eleven year old, but I don’t make as much of an effort with my clothes and makeup. I’m just normal. James loved me for who I was when I was eleven. He found me perfect the way I was. One day, I’ll find someone else who finds me perfect just for being me.