Perfect imperfection

She felt broken inside. No one knew. How could they? She only ever showed her lovely, funny, happy, gorgeous face. Mask rather. No one knew that she was so very self-conscious, that she felt as if she wasn't measuring up to society's standards at all, not even to her own mask. It was not that the mask was completely fake, it was just that, well, the mask wasn't all she was. It was only the small part she felt safe sharing. Underneath, lurking in the shadows, was the anger, the sadness, the hurt, the self-harm, the desperation, the brokenness. Underneath was the whole person, gorgeous and ugly, strong and vulnerable, loving and hating, securely locked away so no one would know. No one was allowed to find out that she was not perfect.

This is my story. And this is the story of the people I meet in my counselling practice. The details change, the stories behind the story change and yet, everyone, including myself, wears a mask. The masks change as well. Of course. We are individuals, with our own flavours and colours. Some masks are bright and colourful so that everyone would like us. Some masks are exhaling danger so that everyone would stay far away from us. Some masks are misty-grey so that no one would really see us. Some masks are so fixed to our faces, we don't know how to take them off anymore. Others seem to change, our face is different all the time so that we look like a chameleon, always adapting to our surroundings. And yet, no matter what the mask might be, it only ever shows parts of ourselves. And it hides that we are not perfect.

Perfect: having all the required or desirable elements, qualities, or characteristics.
What a goal. What a trap. The aspiration to be the perfect mother-father-employee-friend-human destroys people time and time again. For a very long time, it destroyed me. It discouraged me from showing my true colours, my authentic self, my vulnerability. And yet, it is (like one of my very dear friends said the other day) essential to truly be myself if I want to truly connect with people. So, what's the alternative?

Perfect: as good as it is possible to be.
I will never be perfect-perfect. I will always be perfect-imperfect. I can strive to become as good as it is possible to be right now and that is all I can really do. That includes the mask I choose to display and it includes all those things that lurk in the shadows. Because this is who I am. At this point in time. I am as good as it is possible to be. A perfect imperfection.

Rebuilding the city (and yourself)

Christchurch. A city in trauma since the devastating earthquakes in September 2010 and February 2011. The city will never be the same. It was rattled with significant force, rattled to its core. 185 people have lost their lives alongside numerous animals. In my recent visit, I walked around the CBD, deeply touched by the still very visible signs of devastation. I got a glimpse of what it must feel like to walk through a war zone.

The soldier who has survived his recent deployment. The woman who has come out of her abusive relationship. The teenager who has experienced sexual abuse, perpetrated by the father. The little boy who has seen his mum being beaten up and eventually got hit as well. Different stories and yet, these people are all caught in their personal trauma. Once again, hearing their stories reminds me of walking through a war zone. I can't see it, I can't smell it, I can't touch it, but there it is. Shattered minds. Broken feelings. Panic and desperation and anger wherever I look.

There is something that amazed me about Christchurch. (There was more than one thing, but I am trying to stay focussed.) Christchurch was oh so full of life. Full of creativity. Full of people who are picking up the pieces, turning them this way and that, and then making something new and unexpected with it. In others words, Christchurch was full of hope:

I found this mural next to Countdown close to the CBD. Next to boarded up buildings. Next to cracks in the walls or the footpaths. “Our vision for the future is hope.” I saw wonderfully graffitied walls in the CBD. A new mall, made out of shipping containers. Life, everywhere I looked. I felt the panic and desperation and anger and yet, it was as if the city was looking at me with bright eyes, exclaiming: “Yes, it's been hard and yes, I still cry and scream, and yet, I am life! Enjoy me. Explore me. Be alive in and with me!”
I stopped. I looked around. I listened. Breathed. Waited. Listened some more. I thought about how trauma throws a town, a person into a state of shock. And yet, this is not where it stops. Yes, trauma carries risks. And trauma carries possibilities. The chance to learn. To try something different. To be creative. To grow. To hope.

Trauma tears a soul apart.
Pieces, lying on the ground, desperate to be put back together.
The soul tries so hard to be whole once more.
And there is hope.
There is always hope.
She will never be the same again.
She will always carry scars, some visible, some invisible.
And she carries beauty.
She will always carry beauty.
Amongst all these scars, there are flickers of who she once was.
Who she still is and can be again.
Trauma tears a soul apart.
But there is always hope.

~ Kathrin Marks, 18th of July 2013 ~