Too perfect to know
I guess no one really thinks they’re the problem when situations arise and personally, I have a script of excuses for what I’ve done. To say that doesn’t mean they aren’t valid, but it highlights the fact that I need them. I should start by saying that anything I have done wasn’t purposefully hurtful but rather thoughtless and therefore, still painful. Excuses make my soul feel better, and I’d say that most of the people I’ve hurt make those same excuses for me as well. It wasn’t until recently that I began to think about my role in situations and how I’ve never been able to explain why thoroughly enough. But I have been a problem. And I was too perfect to know.
I always thought that because I tried to be the nicest, most accepting, and understanding person, my wrongs were mistakes that I deserved forgiveness for. And since I handed out forgiveness to everyone, they should do the same. Now, I realize they may have been more well-rounded than I am. Before accepting my wrongs, I have to discuss others wrongs and not only what it did to me, but also what it meant to me. Handing out forgiveness never allows you to process the emotions that come with wrongdoing, and I find myself years later holding onto anger and sadness from the past. I constantly wonder why I was cut off, forgotten about, and thrown to the side and even though being my friend had become difficult, how could they do that to me? Suffering without their support hardened me and all the apologies I gave for things I couldn’t control are taken back. Now, I sit in anger with unsaid words I wish I’d screamed. But it couldn’t have been easy. And I was too perfect to know.
If I’m self-conscious about being dependable, it’s probably because I’m not. I want to be the girl that flew across the world for her little sister. Or drove to Texas with her brother so he wasn’t alone. I need to be that person again. Do I blame myself for not being there for years? Not technically. It’s more of a desire to be who I know I am and to stop letting my mental health to dictate my character. When I push, I think of them. When I cry, I need them. When I finally turned the corner, all I wanted was for them to see. Even though they may still hold something about it, I’ll never forget my brother was the first one I called and that my sister never missed a day visiting me at the hospital. I credit them for holding me to a higher standard even at my worst and it’s the reason I can see that I was too perfect to know.
Sometimes I think too much praise can be detrimental. Comfort in insanity only cushions the crazy that needs to go away. The fights and yells are the ones that brought me back. Dad’s screams sifted through the chemical imbalance and pulled a sliver of me back into the atmosphere. Mom sat down every time and explained to me that things weren’t real before driving me to the hospital. Sometimes I shiver thinking of how they saw me but since I was never in their shoes, I never saw myself in that light. And so, it took me longer to realize I was the problem. I was too perfect to know.
I’m only just now processing the last few years, and I think it’s because I am finally out of it. There’s embarrassment, shame, anger, guilt, sadness, and much more. It’s coming out of me at random times and for someone that has PTSD, I can feel this is another trauma point on the timeline. But this time, I know my place, and I’m not too perfect to know.
