An Escape to Perfection

Every morning for three years I’d walk to my bathroom, prop myself in front of the mirror, and examine the same, hideous face that would appear in the glass. Jesus Christ, was I cursed. It didn’t matter what anyone said about my appearance, it didn't matter that there were some whose attractiveness was more thoroughly damned than mine - I still had that face. Blemishes sprinkled across every plain and crevice, pores gaping like water filters on my skin, hair stringy, wispy, weak. I despised it - I despised myself.

Well, they’re not as bright as me, that’s for sure, I’d rationalize upon seeing the myriad of women, older and more attractive than myself. Not half as interesting. Not half as kind.

Sure, I had shortcomings in one area, but in others, that’s where I found my comfort. That’s where I found my escape. Yet, the shattering self-consciousness never ceased to stifle my short-lived comfort. For every affirmation I gave myself, the world around me hurled eleven condemnations. Therefore, it was required of me to find a more permanent solace.

I’m going to the gym. Every day. I’m eating right, with no exceptions. Then I’ll look like them.

And so it went. I worked, and worked. I studied and attempted to bolster compassion. I could not just be decent. I could not be worse. I had to be better. Not in every way, that was impossible. But in my ways, the few traits I chose to consider pillars of my personality, in these places I had to be the best.

I tried a variety of activities, hunting for the existence where someone would call me perfect, amazing, fantastic. Time and time again, my choices led to failure. I turned and turned, spinning myself into circles of options until I saw the area with which I could stroke my ego: theater. That’s where I belonged. There, I could be the best.

Not a student held a candle to me. I was Audrey Hepburn incarnate. Audition after audition, I took the stage. I got the roles. And so it went, on and on through my youth.

My routine followed, but a day came when I completed my hourly examination of my appearance and, against all instinct, I smiled. The blemishes were gone, but what remained of my work was present. My body was toned, my acting awards hung on shelves throughout my parents’ house. I was a queen. I was special. My insecurities, my shortcomings, they pushed me to find the places where I could craft myself into something extraordinary. Something outstanding.

I arrived at college, ego larger than the campus, and examined my competition.

They’re about to see one of the most impressive freshmen in Chapel Hill history, I thought while entering the auditorium - dressed professionally, yet just provocative enough so that a handful of audience members would subconsciously view me as superior thanks to my body's appeal.

I charged onto the stage with full force. When the call-backs came, I was so filled with self-confidence that I almost couldn't read the names of the elite chosen to perform. Despite this, I realized my own was absent.

At that moment I discovered the nature of my uniqueness - the essence of my fantastical self-image. All my life I had an urge to be something. To be special. And I followed that urge to where I would feel it. If I was born as an Einstein rather than a Hepburn, I would have pursued the maths club, and found that I was special there. If I was a Steinbeck, I would have picked up a pen; and felt that who I was, was outstanding. Perhaps if I was a John Paul, I would have become a nun. And I would have been the world’s most unique nun. Yet, in truth, in none of these areas could I ever be special. I could only fool myself into believing I might be. And in most circumstance, I could fool myself so well that I genuinely, truly, believed it.

I turned my eye from the call back sheet, and ignored it. Soon after, I searched for the area where I would once again be special - purposefully, deliberately remaining ignorant of the fact that there were billions of individuals more amazing than myself.

Why do I ignore it? Because, somewhere in me, I need to be the best. If I live my life in selectively chosen pockets of the world, as we all do, I will be. I’ll never feel like I did when I looked in that mirror. I would never, not once, not for an instant, feel like I was anything but extraordinary.