Thinking Oneself to Death

My bedroom in my Spanish homestay is dark. It is windowless. It needn’t comply with the laws of my native United States, which require sleeping quarters to have functional fire exits. This bedroom makes siestas long and weekend mornings longer; today I hardly leave my tiled sanctuary before two in the afternoon because of its lack of natural light and my aversion to weekend alarms. 

Hoping to compensate for this indulgence—that which makes me feel like I’ve pissed away my time in Spain—I decide to go to the gym, despite being desperately sore from a week’s worth of half-marathon training. Listening to my body is not in my nature; my brain dictates all. 

“We are so 20-somethings,” said Lilli when I informed her of my newest preoccupation. “We are at the age where people just… run half-marathons.” 

But aging has had more of a negative effect on me; I am only regressing further with the coming of each year. The training for the half-marathon isn’t a product of my maturity, nor my desire to integrate into the community of established, distance-running adults. It is another box to check, another realm I must conquer and do so flawlessly. It is alimentation for my perfectionism. It is the pursuit of all possible knowledge.

To further submerge the guilt of oversleeping—or, perhaps, to punish myself—I listen to a self-help podcast while exercising instead of my usual media. My mind of its own lands on an episode titled “Perfectionism” on a show called Aware and Aggravated. Fitting. 

I resonate with this for obvious reasons. I know I’m a perfectionist. And as I nod along to the episode, I believe it to be the beginning of a breakthrough. I think, because I can acknowledge these habits as my own, I will be better equipped to combat them when they arise. I convince myself of this while I maintain a full sprint on the treadmill, deprive myself of music, and mentally plan the intense weighted workout that is to follow. If you were to ask me why I’m doing this, I would tell you I’m trying to improve my split times.

Leo Skepi of the Aware and Aggravated podcast says that perfectionism is a brain defect. He claims that perfectionists are the most unhappy. He reflects on his inability to feel accomplished in his life, despite strenuous efforts that surpass those of others. He never gets surprised, because he already anticipated every possible scenario. He has a difficult time enjoying himself, because nothing meets his ridiculously high expectations. He is constantly disappointed in the imperfection of the world, but most of all, the imperfections within himself. So much ambition and so much passion can be dangerous when housed within the minds of people like ourselves. 

In my reflexive thinking about perfectionism—as it exists within me—I’ve come to realize I’m competitive not only in the simple happenings of everyday life but about the fact that I’m a perfectionist. There are some clean, unfolded clothes on my floor, so how will any of my friends believe I’m a perfectionist? What if my bathroom isn’t flawlessly scrubbed? What if I seemed disengaged at a magazine shoot? What if Strava shows I didn’t finish my run at an even number of miles? Will they wonder if I’m calling myself a perfectionist to toot my own horn, to create a false illusion that I have my shit together? 

The thought of people doubting my perfectionism paralyzes me, as does the perfectionism itself. The slightest bit of disorder—although disorderly in a way that fits into the grooves of my birth-defected brain—makes me second-guess my legitimacy as others perceive it. I have exceptions to extreme order that some might see as contradictory; some things don’t bother me in the same ways as others, even when utterly imperfect. But perfectionism manifests in the way that I find myself overexplaining the reasoning for something being slightly out of order. Or overapologizing. Or providing a timeline, beginning to end, of the events that caused my laundry to go unfolded, or my run to go unfinished, or, or, or… I’m doing it right now. 

It’s all about justification. Everything I do has a reason—a reason that, if given sufficient time, I could explain in micro and macro terms. If my reason is misunderstood I shut down. I look for words that might stimulate further comprehension. If I fail, I rule them stupid. Do you people not know how to process a simple sentence structure? I said this perfectly. How don’t you get it? How could you be so blind? 

Maybe it’s that I’m not blind enough. I’m hyper-aware. I feel everything so intensely. Too intensely. I seek to uncover layers of simple things to the point of hating the subject matter. Being overwhelmed by it. Feeling as though I’ll never be able to fully grasp the weight of the world because it’s all simply too much. There’s so much to consider all the time. Do people know I’m considering it? Do they know how much I think? Or do they not think about that?

Sometimes I wonder if others feel a greater sense of freedom than I do. But referring to someone as “free” seems a bit backhanded. It dumbs them down. It implies they don’t feel responsible. It suggests a removal from the collective worry. How come we (or, I) pass judgment on those who abstain from worry? Why do I get frustrated with their indifference? Because I crave such freedom. My never-ending thought cycles give me the false hope that, through over-consideration, freedom is possible for me. But in this overthinking I realize it might be the opposite. To overanalyze is to find fault with something. To find room for improvement. To expel narratives not visible from the surface and expose unseen truths. Maybe they’re under the surface for a reason. Maybe it is a birth defect. Maybe my brain forces me to see what is meant to be hidden. I’m a savant. A real troubled one. 

Not having a conclusive way to end this piece makes me wary. Wary of people criticizing my writing. Wary of people thinking I don’t know how to complete a thought. Wary of the fact that I called myself a perfectionist but then didn’t come to a perfect ending. Wary of the fact that it seems like I didn’t consider enough. 

But maybe the first step in minimizing the effects of a taxing birth defect is to challenge it. Maybe I don’t need an ending. Maybe I don’t need to fully understand this concept. Or myself.