Perfection is a lie

Have you seen a picture of a person so flawless, that you thought his/her appearance was simply perfect? The image was, no doubt, manipulated.

There is no person in the world, whose picture after a photoshoot would not get improved upon with an image manipulation software.

That's because no one is as perfect as our false images of perfection are. Nor should anyone be. We as a collective have become too picky. It's not enough that someone is beautiful or stunning. Her skin has to be perfect. Otherwise we will comment on her (I'm using the female pronoun because men can be rocking a stubble and scars, but for women that is unacceptable) appearance as not being pretty enough, as not being just perfect and right.

We have lost the appreciation of imperfect beauty, whilst being fed images of manipulated perfection. Why? Well, it probably started after someone figured out to make their models look a bit better than other companies models in advertisements, through manipulation.

So why would we buy a product that is brought to us by a normal looking, kind woman, when we could buy the product given us by the dominating icon of perfection? That, however is no longer a real person. If we go out to the real world, we will not see that person, anywhere, because she does not exist. It is an image.

You might have heard people displaying disgust if there is even a slight problem with a person's appearance. And I do mean even a slight. I'm not a fanboy, but Kristen Stewart is not an "ugly bitch". Sure she's not perfect, but nor are people criticizing her appearance. Nor is anyone. Nor should anyone be.

Critical thinking has it's places in the world (especially questioning authority and norm), but being too critical of other people.... If you're going to criticize others, then you are inviting others to criticize yourself. Same goes for other things. Have your mind with you. Don't just criticize for the sake of criticizing. Also think positive when you can. See more than one view if you can. I don't want a world where, instead of "I liked these parts of X (even though it wasn't perfect)", we will only hear "I fucking hated X (because of these parts that weren't perfect and didn't live up to my expectations, even though there were a lot of good parts but those are not worth remembering)".

All in all, I think we should reduce the emphasis we put on perfection, and try to see the perfection of imperfection.

My Little Psychosis

First of all, my psychosis was a peculiar kind. That is, I did not know I even was psychotic. Subconsciously I must have known, since I could answer the doctor that asked whether I heard voices, with a cry, maybe a silent yes, but most definitely by a nod.

I was put on anti-psychotics immediately and what happened is almost beyond describing. It was like an endless, horror-filled night had subsided and the dawn of a new day, no, a new age, was finally upon me.

That is actually how I knew what I had had. The difference between unmedicated and medicated was worlds apart. I had thought what I felt was natural, having succumbed into it for so long, and after getting out of that dark place had I finally seen what the world could be like.

To be honest, I'm not even sure I ever heard voices even though I told the doctor so. Not from the outside at least. I did have a lot of thoughts, mostly unhealthy, and the only voice in my head was my own.

Maybe that's why it felt right to believe it. It was, after all, I. My inner voice.
 I lived many months, maybe even a year, fearing for my life every day. I knew for a fact that there was a real risk in going out and walking from my apartment to my parents' house 200 meters away. If I didn't see anyone outside that could have wanted to kill me, there would always be snipers far away just waiting for a clean shot.

Why would anyone want to kill a nobody like me?

In my psychosis, there was no logic. It didn't have to be rational for I wasn't one to question what I knew was real.

The desire to kill others came mainly from violent images showing what I should do "pounding" in my mind. Maybe it wasn't as much a desire to kill, as it was a desire to stop the pounding images.

To avoid killing anyone, I played video games. It was a good way to distract myself. If I didn't occupy my mind, my mind would occupy itself. I played as long into the night as I could, until I could no longer stay awake, had no violent images and most definitely had no energy left to kill anybody. Especially my girlfriend that I shared a bed with and to whom I became a real pain in the neck.

I did what I have now vowed to never do again to anyone. I restricted her life. I took away her friends, her social life, everything. I told her I didn't want her to do anything without me, and because I wasn't in the habit of leaving the house neither could she. She could go to school and to the store, but never to have any real life, never to see any real people. I had become a manipulative a-hole.

And she endured what no one should be made to endure. And what I will never make anyone endure again.

I feel like this post has been building up for a really big ending, but I just can't figure out a way to climax it. So I guess I'll just end it like this.