Maladaptive perfectionism vs breaking black and white
"Conquering unhealthy perfectionism can be hard" - Thank you, Capt. Obvious
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Perfectionism, they argue, isn’t defined by working hard or setting high goals. It’s that critical inner voice.
There are fewer things more fascinating to me than when something I’ve been contemplating in my own system seems to suddenly show up in a wider cultural conversation. I love the sense of being plugged into the matrix (and yes, the visual is an antenna floating out of my brain and plugging into a grand cosmic circuitboard floating around in the ether), and it’s this plugging-in, this slowing down and listening, this tapping into what is that whirring behind my solar plexus that I sense might be whirring around behind yours, too? that gives me all the fodder for these essays.
I’ve written about perfectionism before, many times, and I’m sure I will continue to do so, not only because it’s a beast that, however well wrangled it might be in this current moment, still stalks and stomps in my periphery, ever vigilant to snake its way back in through my tenderest most vulnerable bits, but also, because every single person I work with, every last one, without exception, is figuring out how to wrangle the very same beast.*
Last week, I read a couple of responses to a meta-analysis by Thomas Curran and Andrew Hill. Their study compares perfectionism across generations, and spanned the years 1989 to 2016.
From the study’s abstract:
Overall, in order of magnitude of the observed increase, the findings indicate that recent generations of young people perceive that others are more demanding of them, are more demanding of others, and are more demanding of themselves.
This study is limited for sure by the fact that they only studied college students, who skew White and tend to be from higher socioeconomic backgrounds than young people in general. And, damn, it was undeniably validating to see an actual analysis of a concept that up to this point I’ve only understood anecdotally.
The thing that I didn’t realize until, oh, twelve seconds ago, is that the study and subsequent responses I read are—by today’s standards—hella old (the study was published in December 2017, and the responses I link to below in 2018). I have no memory of how this all came across my desk last week <insert “woman shrugging emoji” here>. What I do know is that we live in a wildly different world than we did when all these articles came out, and if I were to put my academic cap on, which I would never do because, um, I know my lane, but just let’s say I donned that metaphorical cap and tested out my own hypothesis, I’m 110% positive that the resulting outcome would prove that the beast has its teeth sunk into us deeper than ever.
In these uncertain times, when our own lack of control over literally anything has never been more in our faces, of course this drive is pervasive. With the world spinning into chaos in every direction, and the rate of spin only seeming to increase, of course we are bearing down hard on the one thing we might actually have a say over, which is ourselves.
Despite everything, we are still burning out, and working harder than ever. We track everything, hack and optimize and collect data on every last bodily function. We send out scheduling software to book our time because our calendars are bonkers. Even our downtime is under scrutiny: we have tidy piles of books with all the right titles indicating how we are expanding our minds or developing ourselves (how many books can there be about boundaries, about the Enneagram!?), we journal and make lists and take yet another personality test and some of you maniacs even learned how to bake sourdough bread from scratch.
We keep micromanaging our life; we keep missing our actual life.
We think that these attachments make us special. We think if we check off all the boxes, read all the books, walk all the steps, parent perfectly, hack all our shitty systems, make decisions perfectly aligned with our astrology/Human Design/Enneagram/Myers Briggs/tarot/the direction the wind is blowing on any given day, that we will be OK. That our lives will be shiny, aspirational; that we’ll be able to point to our lives and say look! Look at me! I can handle EVERYTHING!
We think we are unique in our self-obsession. We are not unique. What is unique is breaking this binary. Being able to do it all is not the fucking point, though it sure scratches that itch, doesn’t it.
*
Lest you think I have some kind of monopoly on that aforementioned cosmic circuitboard, turns out a couple of other folks were plugged in, too.
Haley Nahman over at “Maybe, Baby” wrote last month about plugging into her “lowest potential.” Though she doesn’t name perfectionism in the essay, I found her list of ways she’s practicing “aiming low” to be great ideas to counter the cult of black and white thinking:
For me aiming low means getting into a rhythm with my apartment, maintaining relationships with my friends, my family, my neighbors, going outside, trying new things, hitting my deadlines. Even my more spiritual aims are fairly mundane: being honest about complicated feelings, living the questions, staying present, generally not panicking when I experience a typical course of human emotion (my Everest). Obviously investing in these pursuits won’t lead me to new, vibrating planes of existence or high-visibility success. None of them are overtly ambitious or particularly “shareable.” But they change everything.
Rhythms, and relationships, and being honest, and staying present. What’s that sound? Ah, it’s my sweet nervous system shifting down into first gear (though, if I had one critique, it’s that I think this “lowest potential” approach absolutely has the potential to arrive us to “new, vibrating planes of existence…,” like, say, the plane of satisfaction, which‚ can you imagine? and also, is definitely a discussion for another time).
Then there was Sara Campbell, over at Tiny Revolutions, suggesting that It’s Time to Underthink It:
…I feel *really good* about saying what I’m about to say right now: y’all, it is time to underthink it. We’re still in a pandemic and inflation is rising and horrible legislation is being passed daily and there’s an escalating global conflict occurring and many people I know desperately want to quit their jobs and just lie down for an undefined period of time.
So can we all just chill out with the thinking that there’s any one correct way to do anything?
What I particularly appreciate about these reminders is the gentleness inherent. We know that shame is an unsustainable motivator, except for when it comes to the beast, in which case, shame is a Kobe beef steak (yes, I just Googled “ what is the fanciest steak in the world?”). I just wonder what would become available to us if we focused more on lowering our expectations, on simplifying our lives instead of optimizing them; if we focused on transforming that “critical inner voice” instead of pouring all our money and energy and ganas into buying expensive steaks for an insatiable beast.
When I think about the people I love most in the world, and touch in on why I love them, it’s has nothing to do with what they do. I might admire their successes and organizational chops and their cute put-together outfits and Goodreads book list and how they always seem to keep their car spotlessly clean.
What I LOVE about my people has nothing to do with sizing them up to see if they hit some standard of perfection and everything everything to do with the mess.
All you messy as hell people: I want you to know that you are my people. It is your messiness that I adore. It is your messiness that has my heart expand three sizes in your presence despite any attempts on my part to play it cool. It is your messiness that signals to me: yes; kindred. It is your story—all the chaos and drama and wildly swinging emotions and relentless ups-and-downs—that I hold most sacred. I adore the way you fight, they way you stick your foot in your mouth, the gorgeously circuitous way you meander off track. I adore your homecoming. I adore your gritty past and I bless every single last one of your mistakes. I forgive you for everything, and I do mean everything. I exalt in your successes, and I adore you just as much—even more, perhaps—when you fall. I adore you for your humanness, and I thank you for your mess, for getting to adore yours makes it possible for me to adore my own.
When that shitty inner voice sneaks in; when the beast stretches its paw out, snags my t-shirt with its claw, it is a signal to practice speaking to myself as I would to one of you. I think of how I would love you and I do my best to offer that to myself. I pat myself on the back (I’m not kidding). I take a tiny break on the couch. I ride the pendulum of emotion without judgement. And then one day, after an incredible amount of practice—slowly, slowly, over time, we are beginning to understand how this works—the inclination shifts, and I am no longer feeding the beast; instead I am fortifying my own inner public defender,** that part that fights for my freedom, that wants me off the wheel, that scrappy underdog, look at her now, sleeves rolled up, spectacles askew, sweaty under the arms, and I’m giving over, I’m passing the torch: light the way, my love, send all the beasts scurrying.
Sources:
The Dangerous Downsides of Perfectionism
Perfectionism is Increasing Over Time - Curran and Hill
*My MFA might be rescinded for this sentence, but I DON’T CARE, I like it.
**This metaphor was given to me by my coach - HI CATHERINE <3
From the archives ~ this time last year:
⭐️Great Horned Owls and Happy Birthday to Me
⭐️From Superstition to Reclamation
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