Looking for the perfect man
I don’t want to write about men. And, first of all, about parents.
Oil painting: an ideal, pure soul mother who put life on the child, nurtured, nurtured, raised, gave strength and… dad, cruel, authoritarian, tyrant, suffocating and beautiful mother, and trying to break through the asphalt sprout – child.
A child who grew up with such a picture of the world, as if programmed to see only the good in mom and only the bad in dad. And of course all the features that he sees in himself from his mother are correct and wonderful. And all that from the Pope – dirty, unworthy, not having the right to life. Because dad is a fiend, and who wants to be a sinner?
This man rejects not only and not so much the father. He rejects a part of himself. Try to imagine that you cut off one of your hands, or, at least, hide it forever behind your back, tie it so that it does not hang out and show itself – because this hand is not as correct as the other. It’s like she’s compromising you. This is about the body, and about the reasonable part, and the feelings and traits inherent in man.
Without hands hard-many opportunities are limited, and some at all inaccessible. But to show your hand is to be bad, like your father, and they are rejected. In the family this father’s rejected. And now he has no right to be loved and needed. And any of us want to be loved. That’s why you have to hide the hand that looks so much like your father’s.
And honestly, fuck him, dad. But with him people froze in being able to say no, to be angry, to shout, to defend their opinion. There are many more options here. Not just frozen. These skills are simply impossible to see, as if they do not exist. No father. Or better yet.
And at the same time, everything that is inherent in the beloved mother – must be right and good. And if I don’t like something, then I’m a donkey. And I carefully close my eyes to what I abhor in my mother: indecision, avoiding conflicts, sagging under all and everything, and maybe alcoholism or children’s capriciousness, or inability to believe that the other can be happy differently than she. There could be a lot of things. Look carefully, without pink glasses, it is desirable.
And I don’t trust myself anymore – what I don’t like about my mom, what irritates, pisses me off, makes me want to scream and get angry – is actually absolutely perfect and right (mom is perfect). And every intention, decision, desire a person is forced to compare with the picture of the world mom. Otherwise it will be sinful, and therefore, unaccepted, unloved, unnecessary. And every time he encounters his own disagreement about his mother’s picture of the world, he blames himself, bites, hates.
Mom and dad in this picture – the gods and similar creatures. They are perfect in their infallibility and in their diabolical essence. So one must be loved, the other hated.
And just removing those rose-colored glasses, you can see that mom is not ideal, and the Pope is not the devil incarnate. They both, like me, have an angel and a devil on their shoulders. Each of them is weak or strong in his own, sinful in his own, guilty or worthy of respect in his own. And both can be love. And you can be angry at both.
To love does not always mean to run and make real contacts. Especially if we are talking about the harsh abuse in the past. To love is to find a place in one’s heart.
Being angry is also not about building mom and telling her what kind of radish she is. It doesn’t always work that way. Although, when you have to explain to me, how impossible, the ability to defend their opinions will be extremely helpful with my mother.
When our parents are no longer gods to us, we allow ourselves to see real people and be with them. And become whole, we begin to slowly release the clamped part of the body, mind and soul. We become different, alive, real.
And that’s when I do not necessarily have to be with me was only the perfect man or perfect woman. I can now just be there and not require the divine from the human. Because I am not God, and I’m not born from the gods, and family, is to build not only ideal, but real man of the earth. Who has his vices and those qualities that we like so much.
And I there was, honey, beer saws…
I was there too, where my mother is an angel and dad is a demon. I also rejected a lot of what is so helpful to me now: rigidity, ambition, love of attention, determination and ability to take risks, sharpness and straightness. And I also did not notice the weakness of those qualities that I admired so much and did not find in myself, but which always irritated me: softness and blind obedience (blind – when I do not tell myself honestly that I want to be submissive now with readiness to rake then all possible consequences), readiness to take care of others to the detriment of myself.
Now I have a more vivid picture of both fathers and mothers. I love both and both make me periodically a kaleidoscope of negativity. It’s different. But it is the fullness of perception (though who knows, I can still not see everything), gives me the opportunity to be complete. Full – means different, to react to the world as it is born inside, and it is not important, it is good or bad.
And together with those, that I is ready be any sign, I is ready to see in his a man and good, and bad. Not deny his weaknesses and not to do idols from his forces. I can just be with a living person, not requiring him to be perfect, not turning away from him when “ugly”, not running away when not the way I wanted.