Memoirs of an Amnesiac

I am a self-confessed perfectionist. I guess I couldn't blame myself because I have no less been nurtured by my perfectionist father. He, having lived through a difficult life, had to endure skipping meals while yet younger and orphaned (although he still had his father but his father had his new family; his mother died of giving birth to him), had vowed to give the best for his family, no matter what the cost.

I grew up with the word STANDARD. There was always a better, if not the best, way of doing things. I learned not to be mediocre, to just let things as they are, without maximizing their fullest potential. Contentment was not an every day by word in the house. Contentment is like drugs, a taboo.

This had so far proven to be a great advantage to me. Mediocrity had not cultivated in my psyche, thus, helping me to achieve much with school work. I had not seen the academics as full of drudgery, as compared to my contemporaries. Even to this day, I pride at easily understanding texts and analyzing concepts.

But like the deformities of a newly-built building that had not undergone inspection, there was always a rub in me. Since perfection had been the dogma I had followed while growing up, I was expecting people around me to do much the same. This had proven to have debilitating effects on the people around me and even extends to the people I have relationships with.

Little did I know that even when I strive for perfection, I am fallible -- bound to fall and fail. I guess you could say, I learned my lesson the hard way. Things that I had considered to be invincible crumbled like cookies. And I had learned to put a sense of balance on things. Contentment was added to my life vocabulary and I have never been more fulfilled ever since.

I realized that life is not meant to be perfect. It is in our every imperfection that we learn to stoop down and understand what truly matters, to develop that which is fragmented or broken into something that is put together -- not impeccable but nevertheless, whole.

Some old habits of perfection I know will be difficult to deal with at present. It's hard not to think again of the glories of perfection, to struggle with just getting by and letting go.

It is difficult to be imperfect, even at present.