I am not a perfect being. I will never be a god. I will die.
I need to write it. And say it, out loud.
I asked this on Facebook:
I judge myself unfairly, painfully, and harshly. You might too. Why do we do this?
One friend shared that “We beat ourselves up first so it doesn’t seem so bad or hurt when others do it to us.”
Another reminded me that self-perfection is a myth. What’s only possible is self-mastery, being our best selves. As he put it, if we condemn ourselves after mistakes, we are agreeing with “the lie.”
I spend my life wedged between these two ideas. I expect self-perfection and thrash myself before others do, because I know it isn’t possible.
And I want to be perfect because praise has turned out to be a toxic element in my life. But more than that - deep down I know that being perfect is the only way to live forever, to not die. And death intimidates me to the point of fearing it. It is, perhaps, the root of all my fears.
Which is why I must say it, out loud.
I am not a perfect being. I will never be a god. I will die.
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