The Perils of Perfectionism

Yesterday a friend shared an article with me entitled “How Millennials became the Burnout Generation.” At first I rolled my eyes and thought about skipping over it, thinking it must be just another baby boomer accusing millennials of being lazy or whiny. Instead, I found myself reading an essay which perfectly encapsulated the existential dread I’ve been feeling in greater and greater doses since elementary school. 

The author, who wrote from the opposite tail end of the millennial generation as myself, had somehow still experienced the same guilt as me. The same inexorable fear of menial tasks and periods of complete inability to accomplish tasks. This same depression sent me to therapy last year, where my therapist posed a simple but loaded question to me: “why does everything have to be productive?” Always poised to rattle off a vague answer which would redirect the conversation, I began to speak only to be cut off by the therapist again. “-No. I want you to go home and think about it. We can talk about it when I see you next week.”

That was the worst thing she could have said. Letting it stew in the abyss of my mind for a week meant that I would most likely have even less of an answer when the time came. After all, my false confidence would wither under direct scrutiny from its biggest enemy- myself. Sure enough, when the time came for my next appointment my quick-witted response had evaporated and I was still left without a clear answer for her question. Why did I have to be productive all the time? Why were my phone notes filled with to-do list for long term goals, short term goals, schools to attend, classes to take, drawers to clean out, letters to write, foods I needed to eat, movies to watch, books to read, people I had to see, in list after list next to boxes waiting to be checked?

I had turned everything in my life into a task. Sometimes I would tell myself it was a game, but then, why wasn't I having any fun? The author foresaw my question once again. We were all raised to be work machines. We know nothing else. And so we become uncomfortable with the idea of not accomplishing something constantly. Every hour of our existence has been planned since we were old enough to be placed into ballet classes, piano lessons, softball games, and figure skating. Increasing homework loads have made it impossible to be doing anything other than studying for most of your waking hours, and this transfers to working late hours and obsessing over self-improvement when we were finally spit out into the “real world.” We don’t know how to have fun for happiness’s sake alone. Happiness, to me, only came in the form of an accomplishment. I had achieved, and made those around me proud, so I could be happy. I was allowed to be happy. But only for a short time, before the urge to do came biting my heels once again.

Of course, this lifestyle is not sustainable. It’s what led to the week-long period of sudden impairment throughout which I could do nothing but lie in my bed as I missed the appointments and meetings I’d set for myself. I was loathe to label it as depression, a word which had haunted my friends and led to medication disasters and dreaded therapy experiences. But what else could it be? How had it crept in out of nowhere, I wondered, and how could I slough it off so I could go back to being productive?

It should be noted that during this time of isolation I still managed to put up dozens of items of clothing up for sale on Poshmark and marathon two seasons of a show my friend had been pushing me to watch. Even with a feeling of complete helplessness weighing on me like a tight winter coat I couldn’t shove off the feeling that I had to get something done. I hardly ate, drank, slept, or moved for four days in my apartment, but I needed an excuse in case anyone followed up on my progress.

Ah yes, the imaginary grader who follows me everywhere. Nice to see you again. He’s the one who sees every mistake I make and marks it down so the world can see what a screw-up I am. But if I accomplish enough menial tasks, sometimes he’ll leave for a coffee break while I sleep. He counts up my progress and tsks at me when I ask myself if I’ve done enough to deserve a break.

After breaking down and calling my mom, who quickly agreed I was always allowed to see a therapist, I thought perhaps I would solve it. After all, I would have 9 sessions with the therapist before I graduated, that had to be enough time to get rid of the pesky depression puffer-coat and get on with my life, right?

The sessions were good. I graduated. I moved on. I ignored it for another six months. I was the friend who had it all figured out in the freshman year of life my friends had dreaded. I had an acceptance letter to graduate school, two jobs to pay for it, and a zero-cost room at home to squeeze every penny into my bank account possible.

Then I saw myself reflected the Author. 

And I looked back at those stats. 

I’m working seven days a week to save for a graduate program which will still put me in debt for years to come and most likely not lead to a job post-graduation. 

I have to drive almost an hour to see any of my friends and I often feel isolated at home.

I have no idea what the future holds after I graduate, I am simply hopeful that I will figure it out along the way. But aren’t we all?

So this year I have set just one new year’s resolution for myself: Be Impulsive. 

I’m going to do something when it pops into my head instead of putting it on a to-do list that I never finish. I’m going to stop building myself a mind prison of tasks and calendar invites and emails. To-dos lead to somedays, which can easily lead to never.

Perfectionism is a lonely road to procrastination.

Instead, I’m taking it one day at a time and, for the first time, that’s alright by me.