The Grief of Perfection

I have left many relationships long before the other person was done with it: walked out of marriages, relationships, friendships. I could not convince myself it was love. I could not convince myself that this is the way it was supposed to be, that this is what there is for me.

People tend to assume it’s because I was angry at the other person. Not necessarily. Sometimes not at all. They assume it’s because I think I’m better than the person, or that I think I deserve better.

I’ve never known quite what to say to that accusation. We’re all free to set our ‘price,’ whatever it is for us—but often as not it was simply the endless, nagging knowledge that this was not enough, and even more the knowledge of what it should be, what it could be, and the knowledge that it would never be that way. I often left for grief. It was seeing that the way things were was the best both of us could give, and it still wasn’t love. It still wasn’t right. It still wasn’t enough.

It was seeing that neither of us were giving our best, and that wasn’t enough, either.

It’s Sunday. I’m going to a party for St Michael (today is his day), but Sunday is also Freda’s day, and it’s Freda I have on my mind.

Freda weeps not because we’re bad, but because we could be so much better. Because we’d be so much happier, so much more joyful, so much closer to the divine, but we can’t even see it.

It’s why we weep for her, too. Because she must endure seeing that gap and knowing what could be, and knowing that we cannot even see what we’re missing.