THE STRIVE FOR perfection becomes more than just a game; it becomes an obsessive routine that slowly kills and drains. There exists no comfort in passion, only strict precision. At the end of the race is a reward that reflects every effort and sacrifice – a bait to continue the act of being the greatest, only to be ruthlessly speared through the heart by coming at second best, a result that kills not only life, but also every bit of what made it worth living. R.I.P. Emily Dickinson, I would have counted success sweetest if I hadn’t done everything with scrupulous exactness.
A soul who strives for perfection often plays at the borders of masochism; allowing oneself to go to great lengths just to attain a kind of fulfillment that comes from suffering for greatness. I, for one, have fallen along the patterns of this way of living, starting as a child who was taught that she is worth nothing without academic validation, to a woman who has subjected herself to every hardship beyond her capabilities, just to prove her place and passion. Often disguised as martyrdom, it is nothing but a selflessly pursued selfish ambition – of wanting to be considered as extremely capable, along with a name ringing with prestige and expertise. Afterall, as humans, there often is a hunger for success that some take action upon with more starvation.
Countless instances I have had them happen to me, for I am nothing without passion, reduced to a ghost longing for a purpose. A common ground to these situations I find myself in is that there has always been desire to lead. To lead a high school level student body, to lead a senior high school campus community, and to lead a college publication. The first two, despite receiving overwhelming support from peers and voters, was met with a devastating but close result. “You put on a fair and close fight”, were words I received, potentially out of pity but with intentions pure. Yet, the last – a more recent happenstance – was one that left me gasping for air desperately keeping the blood in from a shot heart. To walk away was my first instinct, for there is such a slaughter in dignity and honor to be given heavy weights to carry, excess in quantity, ordered to climb a mountain so high only to be pushed back down. What crushed me weren’t the weights I carried, but the seemingly effortless nudge that led to me falling.
I’ve ruthlessly cut pieces of myself to fit in the standards of she who leads a publication. The harshness of language may never fully encapsulate the extremity of the lengths I’ve subjected myself to reaching, for in my head, there is no fulfilment without suffering. My measure for success lies in how much I have had to suffer and soon suffocation was disguised as proficiency in leading.
Congratulations were made in advance for a title assumed as mine, only for the results to bear a different name, a name associated with excellence, intelligence, and a remarkable ability to lead. I was left with myself to blame for not reaching a level of competence that transcends that of being a human with flaws.
Suddenly Alexandra Trusova and many more made sense – or rather my fascination and familiarity with their relentless drive and brutal expression of passion met with recognition and the title of being second-best.
In undertaking to accept the reality of things, there exists a void of not knowing how to bring myself back to life, in the form of what I do best. Perhaps there is a need to step back, for even Trusova took 3 years before she stepped back into the rink. But there remains an exigency to step up intertwined with the requirement of tremendous strength, one that I am no longer sure if I can give without letting a part of myself die inside. What differs us two is that the rink will always leave its doors open for Trusova to come back anytime, but the newsroom does not wait nor could it even afford to, as news does not wait to be delivered; it will gladly escort those who wish to leave. But I cannot leave without letting a part of my heart rot with regret. Yet, staying presents no better feeling, for I am left with lingering bitterness and an implication that I will never be enough.
‘Til then, I carry with me a painful longing of what could have been, along with the responsibility of showing up for the community to which we render our utmost service to; sentiments that both outline my deepest wound and echo my very pulse.