Imperfections

You know that little blurb in all your social media sites where it asks for an “About Me” like the inside of a book’s dust jacket?

Yeah, well, for nearly all of mine, I’ve selected just three choice words:

“I have flaws.”

Duh, right? Who doesn’t? And yet, in spite of this universal truth, that I, and you, and we all have flaws, people spend so much time pretending like we don’t.

Check out any dating app. You know I’m right.

But even in admitting our flawed natures, we still fight to keep the true depth of our inherent imperfection hidden away, like the iceberg that brought down Leo Dicaprio and Kate Winslet’s budding affair. Oh yeah and like, a hundred other people who don’t matter.

Case in point, I have a terrible time really expressing my emotional vulnerabilities in a healthy way. Instead of confiding in people I trust, or going to see trained professionals, I choose to broadcast my insecurities and inner turmoil in publicly viewable short essays more suitable for a personal diary than a facebook feed. And even then, after having aired out my dirty laundry, when people ask me about those things I’m feeling in person, the best emotion I can summon is a detached snark, as if to say, “Yeah it’s happening, oh well!”

Because, you know, that’s how adults should communicate their problems.

But in reality, it’s part of a carefully crafted trapeze act designed to reveal only as many of my flaws as I deem safe. Again, look to dating apps. On profiles you’ll see quirky little tidbits about people, like how they prefer to veg out and snack rather than go for a hike or something. That’s a calculated choice, not an admission of a character flaw. That’s not someone saying, “In general, I am a lazy individual.” What they’re really saying is, “This is a bad habit that is generally relatable, so it won’t reveal anything about me that would disqualify me from being likeable.” Hell, even me putting “I have flaws” in my bio is a safe choice, because of course it’s true but it’s so ambiguous it doesn’t really mean anything.

It’s all about qualification. About relatability. Connecting. We’re all fighting to connect, and part of that is manufacturing an image of ourselves that is sympathetic and not at all frighteningly damaged.

The irony of that, of course, is that we’re all frighteningly damaged, because you can’t make it to your mid-to-late twenties, or thirties, or forties, or higher without suffering. Without experiencing loss, or grief, or heartbreak, or betrayal. Or without being responsible for those same things. And in that way, we can all relate to one another.

See, and forgive how trite this is going to sound, but in the way that things are beautiful because they’re flawless, people are beautiful because they are profoundly flawed. We don’t become who we are by carefully dodging catastrophe, but by surviving it. Enduring it. And as the scars of our trials grow in number, our true nature begins to shine through. Because it’s not you that’s being chipped away by life, but the person you’re pretending to be. The person you think other people expect you to be. The person you’ve convinced yourself you have to be.

It’s not a novel concept to strive to be more open or honest, but it’s one we shy away from like it’s some wildfire that will consume us. You know, in the same way we know we should be flossing, but we still neglect to do so. Until finally your dentist confronts you and you lie even though blood is dripping down your chin onto your shirt when he barely grazes your gums with his little metal…pokey…thing.

We lie to ourselves, tell ourselves that to hide our damage is to protect ourselves, or in an even more delusional way, to spare others from being burdened (Guilty).

But that impulse to build up walls of impenetrable self-defense mechanisms, self-deprecating humor, and snarky detachment from your own suffering ultimately alienates us from each other, as all walls do. And they alienate us from ourselves. To pursue perfection, to hide yourself in the false notion of it, is to reject individuality — to reject yourself, idiosyncrasies and all.

And then it’s just you, buried underneath a tower of the you you want others to see, wrestling with yourself. You simultaneously try to protect yourself and lay yourself bare. You post revealing personal essays and then avoid mentioning them in conversation. Because you want to connect in a way that’s more meaningful than “The Office is your favorite show, too?”, but you also don’t want to get burned.

Or maybe that’s just me.

But, look. I don’t want to guilt you. This is more an indictment of myself and I’m using “you” to project my own insecurities. You know, because confronting yourself is terrifying and it makes me sweaty and hungry and then I can’t sleep or if I can sleep I start to have weird pizza dreams and then I wake up 3 hours before I’m supposed to get up and then 2 hours and then 1 hour and then 45 minutes and then 30 minutes and then 26 minutes and then it’s tossing and turning and checking my phone until it’s 5 minutes before my alarm is set to go off so I just get up and take a shower.

I want to open up about me. And I’ve noticed that I’d like others to open up about themselves, too. Because that’s the good stuff. The stuff that gets me invested in who you are, that makes me want to root for you. The stuff that binds us, that keeps us connected. Which is all the more important in a society where we continue to confuse accessibility with connection at a growing rate.

So yeah, I have flaws. And I’m open to discussing them. Which is what I’ll basically be doing in these readings. Because my imperfections are what made me me, and me is pretty cool.