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I Can’t Be Your Kind Of Perfect


few readers have this weird idea that I’ve got it all together. That I’m a different kind of breed, managing it all with one hand and using the other idly. That I don’t struggle, or cry, or hurt, or fail. Every time I hear these thoughts, I cringe. Not because they’re negative, they’re actually kind of sweet. But more-so because I don’t think I can live up to those statements. It’s this weird pressure to portray myself as perfect. And I am far from perfect.

I used to strive to be “perfect” though. Perfect job. Perfect attitude. Perfect style. Perfect life. Anything you could think of. Picture perfect. I’m not quite sure where I gathered this mess from, but I believed that in order to be impactful, that in order to make history, I had to be all things people considered perfect and more. As you can tell, I gave up on that. Rock bottom has become my home far too many times for me to continue on a path that I am now most certain doesn’t lead to anywhere I want to be. Instead, I’ve taken a road to find the beauty in being imperfectly me, but as I continue this journey, I am constantly faced with the meeting expectations that are too out of my league.

If you’re looking for a superwoman, a woman who is fearless, successful, and sexy, another Beyonce… you’re not looking for me.

I am not that kind of woman.

You see, I am strong to a certain point, but I cry too. In fact, I cry a lot. I don’t really believe in God. Or maybe I should say “Respect God.” I mean, somedays I do, other days like today, I think he’s just a petty old man playing tricks up there. The only time I am guaranteed to be well-behaved is when I am with my baby sister, because she’s my world and… priorities. My eyebrows are crooked, and my ass is not fat. I have cellulite, and dimples in places one shouldn’t have dimples. I also don’t know the first thing about being sexy, but I can pretend (and look crazy) like a motherfucker. Oh, and I don’t know how to flirt either. Womp, Womp.

I obsess over things like my weight, and post-its. I really, really, like quotes and affirmations on post-its. I have a few I don’t give a fuck bones in my body, but I’m sensitive as fuck. I’m your typical Scorpio: half batshit crazy, half compassionate and empathetic. I suffer from intense anxiety that sometimes causes me to throw up or pass out, which will probably explains why I’m not your friendly type right off the cuff. I come with a barrier, a really high one, from having my kindness abused, and my incredibly fragile heart mishandled. I curse a lot, and I know how to cut you with words and insults. I’m also not really interested in changing those habits either. I dream bigger than most, and haphazardly put those dreams into motion- messily, yes. But the job gets done. Every risk I take is calculated, and with every risk I take, a breakdown takes place before and after it. Did I mention, that I really like post-its?

Sometimes I crumble under pressure. Most times that pressure is self-inflicted. I rather lay on my couch and watch A Different World than go to a club, or a lounge, or anything outside of my house, really. I’m introverted, but I’m social, but also have social anxiety. Go figure. I also really believe in the art of self-love, though I’m still mastering it myself. I have a few nuts and bolts loose, sometimes contained by therapy, sometimes contained by wild dancing behind my locked bedroom door. And lastly, in my mind, sleep trumps everything.

[Tweet “Why be someone else’s “perfect”, when you can simply just be you?”]

I can’t be your superwoman, because a superpower of not knowing what one is doing, but somehow getting by is not really a superpower. I don’t want to sell you guys on picture perfect, because well, my life is everything but that and working towards perfect is hard as fuck. I can’t inspire you through dramatic stories that always come with happy endings, because sometimes happy endings do not come. Sometimes life just sucks.

But there is one thing I can do for you, and I sincerely hope that it is enough.
I can show you what life looks likes from my end: a heartbreakingly, magical mess.

And if you ask me, that’s far more entertaining than “perfect”.


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