Perfection ([p?r?fekSH?n] the condition, state, or quality of being free from all flaws or defects) is a ten letter word with more control over my life than I would like to admit. My
obsession with this unattainable state is self-imposed, only exacerbated by my ambitious plight
towards success. Unnoticeable at first, this fixation with perfection developed along with my
success at school, one fed off the other, both raging in a codependent feast causing both to raise to heavenly power over my every calculated and reserved movement. This innate fetish for
perfect scores, immaculate report cards, and academic accomplishments pushed me to the peak of my abilities, and, much to my pleasure, beyond. However, my desire for perfection fabricated
an anxiety-inducing fear of incompetence, each encounter with the idea of failure more poignant
than the last. The word failure sends a shockwave of anxiety that traverses through my vertebrae and reverberates in my outer most appendages. Failure is synonymous with not being good enough. Not to be good enough is to be wrong, which would indicate that my sperm donor’s
abusive words were valid. Not possible. Ever.

The LCD display on my iPhone dock blinks midnight, early by my standards. For reasons unknown, I’m having an extremely difficult time solving a Pre-Calculus problem. This is unusual, in comparison to my previous performance in the first three quarters of the school year. All that is being asked is to validate a simple proof of two equal trigonometric functions but the steps of which to prove the theorem are juggled knives in my obviously expended mind. I’ve always had a certain mental acuity for math and science, so the idea of me not being able to solve this problem is repulsive and appalling. Being home schooled as a young boy, I was completing
middle school math by the time that most of my publicly educated peers were just learning about
fractions and multiplication tables. I was so far advanced that I completed Algebra I twice, both time scoring over ninety-five percent or above on the final test. This proof should be simple.

Maybe the mathematician is the simple one.

I am not incompetent. I am not inept. I can solve this problem and I don’t need help. I just need to readjust my thinking and relax. I give my best effort in thinking these reassuring thoughts in order to drown out the ever so prevalent ones. I can’t hold them back for long, they come flooding through in a tyrannical tsunami of obsessive negativities. I’ll lie down;
that will work. Deep breaths. Deep breaths are important. Why am I so terrible at mathematics
now? I used to be amazing. Now I have an eighty-eight in the class and even some of my friends
are doing better than me. “Better than me” is absolutely unacceptable; “better than me” implies
inferiority. Inferiority means imperfection. How dare I allow myself to fall second to anyone?

I’m falling off the throne I clearly deserve to be sitting in. Maybe I am incompetent. Maybe I am inept. I’m imperfect and that’s unacceptable. I need to be good at everything. I’m turning into a failure. My mom is going to be so disappointed. I’m failing to meet everyone’s expectations.

What will they think of me now? I have nothing to pride myself in but my intelligence. If my
grades aren't superb then I won’t go to a great school. I’ll never get into the University of
Washington like this. Slowly but surely, my skill must be degrading. Or maybe, like the final
string has been snipped by an unknown blade, that ability has fallen over the cliff, disappearing into the abyss of non-existence that shadows all theories of post-mortem reincarnation and paradise. I am becoming inadequate. Just like he said. No, this is wrong. No, this can’t be happening. Please.

Suddenly, I’m lying on my back, staring at the ceiling. My heart is racing; it's thundering steps are not lost on my ear drums. Salty tears cascade the contours of my face and across my mouth, wetting my chapped lips that I have been biting. Metallic blood sours my mouth as the cracked lips purge crimson misery. My hands are shaking, and my diaphragm is contracting as if my obsessions are all dark and unforgivable weights that are being set on my chest. A dark hand of despair and greedy consciousness clutches my throat, nails of anguish stabbing into my skin. Ambition and triumph have been replaced with somberness and self-deprecation leaving an almost physical scar across my inner being that stings with reality.

Normal rhythmic breathing has transformed into hyperventilation that stops effective respiration.

Choking on sobs and forsaking all pride, I contemplate my dismal existence. Every failure I've
ever experienced, no matter how minuscule, has concentrated into this one moment like a
poisonous elixir meant to shatter the glass pane that I have always viewed my life through,
causing an unrelenting suffocation. I send a quick text to my friend and she responds with
immense support and logical yet flawed explanations of how my existence is still functional and
worthy of intention. I run an infinitely long check list through my mind’s processing center.

Contacts out? Check. Mood Stabilizers ingested? Check. More things are checked off of my list
until I fall asleep, emotionally exhausted.

Sleep that night, morning when considering the time of my descent, is anything but
perfect. I come to the conclusion that this has become the theme of the night and possibly my
resulting life. Restless tossing and turning are the physical manifestations of my stirring dreams of abusive fathers and tarnished futures. Images of blood streaked walls, icy grips leading to airborne collisions, words that no homosexual should ever be subjected to by anyone marked in ink on wrist, arms, over the scars that no one asks about, forced drug ingestion, voluntary drug ingestion, locked doors and barbed wired windows flash across my eyelids as if I was in my own person drive-in theatre where my swampy green pupils be the only metaphorical vehicles. This isn’t perfect. This is self-imposed destruction that I have no control over.

Over the next few weeks, I am able to discuss the events of that night with various friends. Usually preferring to keep issues of this nature to myself and putting the raw and dangerous emotions, such as these, in glass vials on the shelf just below the conscious super computer that drives me, I find that this is something in which I will be forced to acknowledge,
as I have come to the dismaying conjecture that not being able to handle alone is just another
part of the imperfection. This imperfection, of which I openly embrace, is but an inescapable
side effect that will forever haunt me until the day that I am swept into the void of non-existence and I can finally escape this labyrinth of suffering. My friends, as I now realize, are my supportsystem in my fight against this wretched obsession of the unobtainable ideological concept of Perfection. They reassure me of my brilliance and convince me that imperfection is natural.

Their support has allowed me to readjust my expectations, this time with a standard of deviation taken into account. All the while, they do an excellent job of encouraging me to pursue a path of happiness, the kind of happiness not purchased by a six figure job and the respect of international scholars. This is the perfect sort of happiness that is only fueled by unconventional abstract nouns such as passion, hope, and security. All of which were missing in the dark shadow of my upbringing, but I have come to the final conclusion that maybe the darkest rooms uptake the brightest light when the veil is finally pulled back. My pursuit of perfection, materialistic perfection that is, had sent me into a deep emotional abyss. Rescued by the support of my friends, I am empowered and prideful in my road to success, now seeking happiness outside of perfection.