Perfectionism is a coffin
thoughts on staying above ground, instead of buried alive by my own expectations.
kast/press updates at the bottom of the article.
For those in my more immediate vicinity, there has been a lot of change shoved through a hilariously small window. Despite all changes being good, it doesn’t take away a few key factors I’ve yet to reconcile with.
Hi, my name is Minna and I’m a workaholic and a perfectionist with a tendency to be entirely unaware—until it’s too late—that I am careening towards both mental and physical burnout.
Over the last year, I’ve discovered a lot about myself that I’ve shared on here. The neurodivergent of it all, the grief that comes with knowing how it “could have been.” Working towards a kinder, slower pace that allows dormant creativities to flourish and self-actualize as the mask(s) burn away. It’s not without its challenges, when one has donned many a hat. When you’ve been the crisis manager. When you’ve absorbed the stress around you; telling yourself that it’s the right thing to do because that’s what you’re good at. Trying to be…everything for everyone, all the time. And only being able to sustain this for short bursts of intense focus—3ish weeks at the absolute limit. But, it was enough time to fool enough people into thinking they could stack my plate with…just, shit. All the shit. Everything you can imagine. It’s the nature of working with other humans, especially in this economy. We’re all tired. We’re all burnt out. And no one has enough time.
But what’s the difference, here, for those of us on our various spectrums?
Lack of identity. Which leads to more shit piles. More burnouts. Because you cannot say no, when you’re not exactly sure if you should say no.
What if it was an opportunity?
What if this is really important?
What if I can prevent something bad?
If I’m not here, who else will be?
Not knowing what mantle to pick up, why, and when.
To put it simply, if you don’t know who you are because you’ve chameleon-ed your way through life. There’s a sense of pattern, sure, but it doesn’t feel consistent. One will tend to, what’s the word?
Implode.
That’s what change feels like to me. Intrusive, implosive, and inevitable.
Perfectionism doesn’t much like change. At least my particular brand of it doesn’t. To have to learn new set(s) of language with new people, jobs, and/or routines…it’s a fucking nightmare. Not because the change is bad, but because the learning curve is steep for my synapses. I want to skip to the part where it feels natural, where I don’t stutter or stumble over my new script. Even understanding where you are in space, driving to that space, putting your bag down in a particular place. I can’t stand not knowing WHERE to do that. I don’t want my things in the way, but I also would like to take up space.
Now. Let’s pepper in the other shit. Sure, my brain is wired a particular way. I’ve explained that in painful detail at this point.
But what about the physical pain?
Within my case of an AuDHD (both ASD and ADHD) diagnosis, studies have shown children’s likelihood of chronic pain display nearly doubles from 8.2% to 15.6%. In adults, neurodivergent 77% of females (assigned at birth) showed symptoms of chronic musculoskeletal pain. But, that’s not all.
“Chi-square analysis also showed a significant relationship between female gender and fibromyalgia (20.462, p = 0.005). Relationships between female gender and hypermobility (17.752, p = 0.013) and female gender and autistic traits (19.797, p = 0.006) also proved to be significant. Although females had higher rates than males for each scale, non-binary people had higher rates of both fibromyalgia and autistic traits. However, the highest rates for all three variables were seen among trans-males and trans-females,…”
*(Autistic Traits Correlate with Chronic Musculoskeletal Pain: A Self-Selected Population Based Survey; Laura Ryan, Harriet Beer, Ella Thomson, Edward Philcox, Clive Kelly; OBM Neurobiology; published February 16th, 2023; https://www.lidsen.com/journals/neurobiology/neurobiology-07-01-155#Abstract)
What I can gather from this, and the general premise of the study are a few things:
Those with neurodivergent brains are more likely to suffer from chronic pain.
Our environment, i.e. the U.S. and its systems, have more of an effect on us than I previously imagined.
Wow, I’m fucked.
I’m not a neurologist. I’m definitely not a scientist. But, it’s an interesting exercise to read on a page what you knew in your body, though you didn’t want to admit it.
Stress from a lack of resources, stress from a lack of accommodations. Ableism, basically.
And I never expected to learn that I was disabled.
Autoimmune, chronic pain, the aforementioned divergent neuron pathways…
I called my grandmother crying last week, sobbing in pain, just asking her to talk to me and distract me. All other things had failed. I took a bath. I sat with my hot water bottle—Walter Huttle Buttle, as their Christian name. Smoked the devil’s lettuce, ate a devil’s candy. Forced myself to walk around for blood flow and hoping for more synovial fluid to coat my throbbing joints like WD-40. All to no avail.
So, I called her. We talked through it, and as my stress level went down because of this conversation so did, too, my pain. It wasn’t like we were wallowing in it, it’s not how we work. But, there was a significant acknowledgement of pain. Both of us agreeing and talking through what it feels like to feel “disabled.” When we’ve never regarded ourselves as such. She and I always having been active, sporty, or just all around moving. She’s shouldered two generations of family life and the duty of a wife to an, admittedly, helpless man. Raised my Dad, watched him fuck off, and then turn around and accept the responsibility of raising me.
I shoulder all the shit they didn’t work through, trauma wise, and I can feel no anger towards her. Because in the moments when I need to feel that responsibility of healing, lift, she is right the fuck there.
Still, that call has happened rarely. I wasn’t raised to be dependent and with even the best efforts of one person, it doesn’t undo or correct the harm from others. I’ve always just been, or felt, alone.
I’ve only begun feeling less so, now. Opening up myself to the possibilities and disappointments that are our relationships in this life.
To be “perfect” is very much a defense mechanism. A shield against potential critique or humiliation. And, until now, I would find my bouts with my bed after dumping all of my energy into a 3-week period shameful. Embarrassing. The cycle of fatigue and pain transitioning into shame would continue until I would start over again in another 3-week tornado of “energy.”
So, where does that leave me?
Disabled. Still, just, disabled.
Having spent so much of my preteen life obsessing over muscle development and “looking lean” (we don’t have time for disordered eating context today, lol). I played sports, danced my whole life, spent ridiculous amounts of time in gyms. All to find the simple irony of, apparently, needing to sit the fuck down. To relax into being, just to be.
I’m still figuring this out. Last week, I wanted to rip my skeleton out of my body. This week, feels a bit easier. But, now I’m not sleeping because I have a flight on Friday to NYC for work. Excitement, yes. Terror, also, yes. Now having to consider how to cope with a landscape that can actively harm me. Because I have a job to do.
But I have to remind myself, however, that I don’t have to be perfect about it.
I never have to be perfect again.
If I’ve learned anything, here, it’s that perfection can kill you. And I’ve got shit to do, so, I suppose it’s better to let it go. Let the lie, ultimately, die instead of burying myself early with burdens. No one is asking me to. And I, alive, am enough.
And so are you.
Updates: Nip/Tuck is still in production, y’all. It’s just a hard digest. But, rest assured, you’ll get more soon.
I’ll be in NYC from April 7th-28th, you’ll be hearing from me a lot more during that time between rehearsals for the upcoming collaborative show: postcards i never sent w/JMP Collective and my company, flock/drown dance theatre. More info on that to come, but follow us on Instagram: @jmp_collective and @flock.drown to see behind the scenes and process.
stay tuned, stay diligent little ghosts