Perfection

Perfection.

A noun, describing an object or event to have the highest quality of proficiency, skill, or excellence. It is something that artists have strived for in their works, something that engineers searched for to further upgrade technology.

Everyone strived for perfection. Perfection meant the most wonderful, the most famous, and the most loved. Perfection was the best of the best.

I hate that word.

Perfection, perfection, perfection, perfection.

Hate is a strong word, but it summed up my feelings the most.

Why do I hate something as simple as a word?

I am a fortunate girl. I was born into a wealthy family of eight. I have five older siblings, three brothers and two sisters, and parents. In school, I am the model student. I always received the top marks in my classes and thus always gained a spot on the school’s honor role. I am always happy to help others in their schoolwork and problems. My teachers praise my excellent work ethics. There are plenty of students who admire me for my smarts, and for my looks. My hair is as dark as midnight and shimmers like the moon. If I ran my fingers through the locks, it felt as though the wind is blowing past my fingers. And many people have said my eyes are a wonder to see for no one had seen such deep pools of the ocean staring back at him.

I have so much that normal people would be deathly envious of.

They say that my life is perfect, that I am perfection.

And I hate it.

I hate how my life is; I hate how easily people say that word to me, and most of all I hate being called that word.

Many people would tell me otherwise; they would say I should be thankful that I am so fortunate to have so many things that no one could have. I am a hardworking model student who has a rich family and a large group of friends that support me in whatever I chose to do.

They do not know what they are talking about.

Do they think that simply because of all this that my life is perfect? That just because I have such an impeccable record that I am perfect?

They are naïve fools who are enamored with the surface.

My family is perfect. Each member is perfect. Whatever my big brother or big sister does, it is perfect. But that is only because our parents accepted only that. We are born into a wealthy family. We are taught that we must never shame or humiliate our good name. If by chance one of us did so, that one will be forever ostracized among us. My family seems like a beautiful and loving family. That is a guise that was wrought to fool everyone. My family is cold in the sense that everyone is distant from each other. We are always competing with the other just to stay in our parents’ good graces. There is no true warmth or true love.

Only perfection.

So what everyone sees is only a mask that I have created to satisfy my mother and father. I am the excellent student whose grades earned her a slot on the honor role; I am the kind and helpful friend that everyone turns to for help; I am the girl of many boys’ dreams.

Nothing but lies spun from the desire to appease my parents, to be accepted, and to not be alienated in my home.

‘Home’ is too strong of a word for that unfeeling atmosphere, but I had to call it as such. Home is where a person could go back to, to feel safe from the harshness of reality or from a daily struggle. Calling such a cold prison as such left a very bitter taste to my mouth.

Perfection.It is drilled into my being ever since I was a child. It is who my parents are and who my brothers and sisters are. It is who I am.

And I absolutely hate it. I never voiced my complaints. Doing so would have made an outcast in my family. I could not turn to my ‘friends’ either. They were being fed a false image of me, and loved it. They are not ‘friends’ and simply accessories to my ‘perfection’. After all, someone perfect could not be without friends.

This hate I kept to myself: my discontent with having false friends and my loathing for my parents’ golden rule. But most of all…

My hatred towards myself. I am not what everyone thinks I am. I am not the beautiful honor student that everyone sees. I am an ugly girl who is lying and deceiving everyone so that my parents would be proud and let me stay amongst them. I am not perfection. These feelings would have crushed me and drove me insane had I not bottled them up tightly inside. I despised perfection, but it is the only choice I had. It is the only way to live. I cannot break away from the norm. Perfection is my only way to live.

Then I met you.

You were a transfer student. Your dyed lime green hair was messy, looking as if you just woke up from bed. Your clothes were in no better shape. You had one long sleeve and one ripped short sleeve, baggy old jeans with random bleached patterns that was threatening to fall off your form, and old shoes with tears and mismatched shoelaces. Surely, anyone in your place would be too embarrassed to be standing in front of a class of 40 students who were dressed normally and pristinely and murmured loud enough to hear.

But what you did and how you behaved was not what I expected.

You grinned widely, showing off your white teeth (not perfectly white like mine, but clean) and greeting everyone happily and boisterously. Your brown eyes glittered in mirth as if you found something secretly funny about the situation.

I was…baffled. How could anyone find humor in this situation, especially a good one? Even with the incredulous and judgmental stares you brushed it all off as if they were only water on a duck’s back.

I was asked to guide you through the school, to help you familiarize yourself with your new surroundings. This task was nothing new to me and so I accepted. You were seated next to me. I smiled and introduced myself.

“Why is your smile fake?”

I did not answer. How could I? It was not a question normally asked. Most of the time, people would always be excited to be anywhere within three feet of my person because of my well-known record. Yet you looked at me as if you can see me, see past my perfection and discover the beast inside me.

That was when I knew that you would be trouble. I had to keep away from you. Otherwise, you would jeopardize everything that I worked so hard for.

But even after you familiarized yourself with the school, you came to me.

This would not have posed a problem. Usually the students that I helped would always come back to me because they knew that I would help, that I would aid in solving their problems.

This is astronomically different. You came to me and talked to me. Just talked. The subject was never the same. It was always random because you said whatever came to mind. You talked about food, hobbies, stores, television shows, anything.

I did not want you around me, nor did I want to be around you. But I could not turn you away because doing so would ruin the image that I created. I tried to turn a deaf ear to you and continue on my task.

It worked.

Then you talked about your passion: music. You did not appear to be a musician, but you proved me wrong when you showed me your violin and music sheets. You told me that you practiced for many hours after school. I asked why you weren’t in band. You replied that the school band was made up of stiffs. I did not comment.

You then told me about the various composers that you loved and admired. Their music touched your soul and made you want to play them whenever you had the chance. I was familiar with the music composers you admired. But there was one I never heard about that you told me.

Fritz Kreisler.

What you said next made me freeze.

He was a liar. He claimed that the music he played was made by famous composers of the past, but it was actually his own. During those times, music critics did not recognize unknown musicians. So Kreisler used the composers’ names so that the critics would listen to and enjoy his music. “The name changes, the value remains,” was what he said when he revealed the truth.

You said that did not like how Kreisler hid the truth. But since he eventually confessed, you let it slide. I did not like him but for different reasons.

I did not like how similar Kreisler was to me.

He was a liar, just like me. He wanted to be recognized by music critics, just as I wanted to be accepted by my parents. But there was one factor that set me apart from him.

He revealed the truth behind himself.

You had a hunch, saying that Kreisler’s lie had a good result. People to this day still loved his music even though he lied about it. If he had continued lying, no one would have known the true Fritz Kreisler.

He would have had a sad and lonely life.

One day I volunteered to stay after school to help clean one of my teachers’ classrooms. I was in the process of organizing the stacks of graded homework. During these monotonous times I let my mind wander. That was a mistake.

The conversation about Fritz Kreisler never left my mind. Even after several months it was there, lurking in my subconscious within easy reach.

Why did you tell me about Kreisler? Because you wanted talk about your passion? Because you wanted tell me about yourself? Or because you just wanted to talk?

No…

I stopped in my work. Realization was gradually creeping onto me.

You knew. Somehow, you knew about my lie, the lie that I wove to shroud everyone’s eyes. You knew that my perfection was a lie.

Yet you said nothing of it to anyone. Why?

I was not Kreisler; I did not lie for others, I lied for myself. This perfect image was for the sake of being accepted into my family. It was not for anyone’s happiness but my own.

…Or was it?

I liked hearing praises if they were coming from my mother, father, brothers, and sisters. We were distant from each other, true, but the praises were real. They told me that they were proud of me, that they were happy. And that made me happy.

I wondered if any of them knew…just how bitter I felt about having to live behind this mask I have. Did any of them realize just how painful it was to live up to this lie? Did any of them know how lonely I am? Did any of them…

…Know how I felt?

I glared at the stacks of organized papers in front of me.

Of course they did not know. I never said anything. I did not complain, I did not whine, I did not do anything. I just sullenly took everything, expecting that I will be fine.But I wasn’t.

The bottle that held in my true feelings was cracking. I did not care. I had to do something, anything, to show how I really thought about my situation. And the only things within easy reach were the papers in front of me.

With a loud and frustrated scream, I grabbed hold of the stacks and threw them up into the air. The time spent to meticulously organize the homework into neat alphabetical piles was completely wasted in less then five seconds.

And I didn’t care.

Watching the white sheets flutter down from the air to the floor, I felt light. The heavy burden I had carried only moments ago dissipated into nothing. The bottle that I created to hide my real feelings shattered. Looking at the white scattered mess I created, I felt nothing but freedom.

A sound of a chair creaking alerted me to your presence. You had snuck in when I was deep in thought earlier. You watched how I destroyed my own perfection. I could care less at the moment though.

You asked how I felt.

I answered that I felt far better than before. That was an understatement but it must have been the right answer because you grinned so widely that your face should have split in half.

“I’ve always wanted to see a real smile on your face since I saw you.”

I had not realized that I was smiling just as much as you were. When I did, I did nothing to stop it. It just felt so good right now to be free and, to just be myself.

After that day, you and I have been inseparable. We are an odd pair, to be sure, but you did not care. Nor did I.

My parents have not talked to me since I revealed that I would no longer be the daughter that they wanted me to be. My siblings followed their example. But this only lasted for a few weeks before their resolve wavered. Even if I was not who I was set to be, I was just as part of the family as they were. It will be some time before they will truly accept me. I was fine with that since I used to be like that myself.

Perfection was the only course. It was the only way in life.

You taught me otherwise. You and Kreisler. Perfection is based on what your heart tells you is right. Even if it is not perfection by other people’s standards, it is perfection as long as you feel it is.

But I still hate that word.