I got a tattoo on my upper arm. I absolutely love it.

The tattoo is supposed to be of Glinda the Good Witch, from the Movie and Musical Wicked. She’s holding her wand and she’s in a bubble; her bubble. In the upper part of the corner there is a crack.

For those that don’t know the complex character of Glinda, (formerly known as Galinda) the Good Witch, from the Wicked movie adaptation of the musical of the same name, she is this prim, proper, and almost perfect person that has put herself in a bubble. In the movie The Wizard of Oz, as well as in the movie and musical Wicked, Glinda travels by bubble.

At first, I so desperately wanted to not relate to this character. The character is pretty self centered and a bit of a narcissist. The constant need for approval and applause. The pats on the head and the little treats that come with it. But I do.

I relate to the constant need for approval and applause. Even typing this out feels self-centered but I mean this is my diary, so to speak. Who doesn’t like recognition that pertains to the goodness of what a person does? And that is where the line is drawn because my ‘goodness’ is always equated to perfection.

What is perfect and never wrong or out of place. It’s the thought that if I want it done right I should just do it myself because there is only one way to do certain things. Ugh and this is the exact thought that my parents would say. Sometimes I hate that I am a product of the problem I said I would never become. I say sometimes because the longer I stay alive then the more time I have to break the cycle.

I said I would never become an addict. I am now an addict in recovery, 47 days clean today. I said I would never sell my body for money or drugs. I sure did that and in this economy I just may end up needing to do it again (lol this is a joke).

One of the lies that I tell myself on a daily basis is that I need to behave a certain way in order to be recognized by the right people. Perfectionism is a performance of adoration for those that want nothing to do with me. Perfectionism is an illusion that must be popped like a bubble. Doing good things for the sake of performance does not make me a good person. That makes me a liar.

Which being perfect should never be the goal. I was born with one ear so I was literally born not perfect. I tried to make up for it in all the other ways. Whether that was trying to be a perfect child, a perfect student, a perfect drug addict, a perfect sibling, son, teacher, roommate, worker, whatever the fuck I was doing in whatever moment I was in – I was always trying to be perfect. Noticed. Seen. Wanted. Loved. Adored. Acknowledged.

That’s all I ever wanted. I couldn’t get it from my birth mother and I only got attention from my dad when it most benefited him, or when he was too busy slapping me across the face thinking that would change my sexual orientation (another story for another time).

Unraveling myself into imperfection starts with first knowing that it’s an illusion. Slowly but surely I’ll see that I was already my own perfection.