Perfection. A term commonly used by those around me to describe what they think is flawless, extraordinary, impeccable, and so much more. In my eyes, there never seems to be anything quite perfect about me. I have tangled curly hair, brown eyes, glasses, blackheads, a minuscule height, short eyelashes, hair in places that I don’t want it to be, a big nose, and so many other countless flaws. I get so exasperated when I see the people around me who look so beautiful without even trying. The rest of the world is so enchanting, but I’m just a grease stain on the pristine mirror.
Growing up, I was a happy child who didn’t care to get dirty in the yard playing with my pet chickens. I was a defiant one who sneaked in the yards of neighbors to steal flowers, retrieve balls, frisbees, paper airplanes, and even bunnies. Yes, bunnies. My first bunny resembled me with his sense of adventure and willingness to explore. I always played it safe though, with my brother always being the one to actually take the greater missions, I usually just got in and got out within minutes or seconds. I seemed to always have concern when making these missions, with constant panic that I might be caught doing wrong. Wrong was and remains a massive fear. A fear that I cannot get away from because I am always wrong about something. Wrong about a test answer, wrong to wear a skirt on a windy day, wrong to leave my hair down when it is clearly a knotted rat’s nest.Back to being a little girl. Kindergarten came along, but oh how I despised it. It was a prison holding me away from my mother—the one who I was never away from for more than a few minutes. She stayed home and took care of me and my brother, so she was by my side my whole life up to that point. I enjoyed walking to school holding hands with my mom; it was something that I cherish to this day. My eyes began to water every time she had to leave me at the school entrance and turn to go home. I cried throughout the dreadful hours of kindergarten, longing for my mom to appear in the doorway and take me home. Even the principal knew me as the girl who cried in the kindergarten halls. My teacher for some reason thought that giving me “gold nuggets” (glitter covered rocks) would solve everything. All it did was confuse me because I did not understand what I could use them for. After kindergarten, things started to make more sense and I began to enjoy school. I was not concerned as much with my grades, but I always seemed to do outstandingly well; it was just built in to strive and achieve. Being the quiet one in the classroom, I always observed my surroundings, looking to see what other girls did, and trying to understand their reasons for doing the things they did. I wondered why they put gloss on their lips, why they ran from boys during recess, why they giggled in the corner. I never fit in with the girls I longed to be with; instead, I played alone at recess — pretending to be a horse, a bunny, a butterfly, a kitten, and even a unicorn. Eventually, I began to make friends, and I enjoyed their presence. Confidence finally made an appearance in my life, and I finally felt as though I belonged to something more than just my parents.