The dictionary defines perfect as the following:
per·fect
adjective
1.conforming absolutely to the description or definition of an ideal type: a perfect sphere; a perfect gentleman.
2.excellent or complete beyond practical or theoretical improvement: There is no perfect legal code. The proportions of this temple are almost perfect.
3.exactly fitting the need in a certain situation or for a certain purpose: a perfect actor to play Mr.Micawber; a perfect saw for cutting out keyholes.
4.entirely without any flaws, defects, or shortcomings: a perfect apple; the perfect crime.
5.accurate, exact, or correct in every detail: a perfect copy.
When I was nine years old I started taking piano lessons. I took lessons until I graduated high school. I started clarinet lessons in sixth grade and also stopped when I graduated. I loved playing. I loved being challenged and loved pouring my emotions into the music I played. But I hated playing piano pieces in front of people until they were perfect. The same with my clarinet. I think, in many ways, I held myself back by having such an intense fear of what others would think of me in my imperfect state. Because that’s what it was, fear. After so many years of lessons and competitions I would still get so nervous going in front of a judge, no matter how confident I had been 30 seconds before entering the room. My fear and insecurity was so bad, I didn’t even like to let my parents listen and they lived in the house!
In some ways my drive to be perfect, or do things perfectly has helped me to be a decent student along the way. But these days all it does is fester itself creating self-doubt in my abilities to be a “perfect” wife and mother.
My non-depressive brain tells me “silly girl, there’s no such thing as a perfect wife or perfect mother. My depressive brain tells me that while that may be true, I am so far from being even a good wife or mother. And the struggle begins: the fight to point out to myself my golden moments; the struggle to not shrug off genuine compliments from loved ones; to not compare myself to other moms and wives; to be content with being my best, my “perfect” and knowing that my loved ones accept that person.
Back when we lived in Yucca Valley, CA while Dave was stationed at Twentynine Palms Marine Base I started a secret blog. I told one person in the hopes that my brutal, raw honesty about my feelings would help her. It was as open and true as I’ve ever been. But even that I couldn’t keep up with because my guilt of what I was writing became too much. Guilt, bad internet reception, a deployment and two moves but I’d long since deleted the blog before the first move. I think having my imperfections so public was a little more than I could handle, even if I believed I was anonymous.
This time, however, I’m in a different place with my depression and with my acceptance of my flaws; and I truly believe that while writing all this is therapeutic for me, it may also be helpful for just one person out there. This is the same name my old, “secret” blog had, and the reason I named it this still resonates with me so why not use it again?
The phrase comes from Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince.
We are all dreaming of that next Golden Day that we will experience. Maybe it will be a big reunion with a loved one, maybe it will just be 30 minutes out of a day that you give your full attention to your son to play one of his intricate and imaginative games. May your heart lift when your next “golden day of peace” arrives.
A Golden Day of Peace 