Writing Without a Map

On perfectionism and faith, compulsion and magic

Sun motif, apprentice’s exercise or ritual protection mark? Southampton, England.

In an effort to write more—well, to write and share publicly—I’ve decided to reclaim process from performance. I’m occasionally told I sound more coherent than I think, anyway. Once, while talking with someone dear to me (we did therapeutic and creative work together, but she didn’t use the label of ‘therapist’), I thanked her for sticking alongside me in our conversations, because I have a tendency to ramble. I try to explain three things at the same time or go into tons of detail. What she said in response has stayed with me through the years.

She said, “It’s a joy. It’s an absolute joy.”

And then she said, “I don’t subscribe to the idea that we should have one clear, well thought-out thing said at a time. I love moving about like this, because that feels much closer to your experience than trying to corral you into a certain way of expression.”

In our relationship, I experienced acceptance in ways I never had before, and for that I am grateful. Since then, whenever friends have apologised for scattered thoughts or words, I’ve found myself echoing her sentiment. Why do we feel like we need to show up with trusted people all tidy and wrapped up in a bow? Nothing appears on earth this way—not naturally, anyway.

Only last night my partner reminded me lovingly for the umpteenth time that I don’t have to come to a conversation with my feelings all worked out. I’ve yet to investigate why I believe I have to do that, but I know that it keeps me from being knowable to them. It shutters connection and collaboration, and it makes me feel lonely when I don’t need to be.

This year, and every year after, god willing, I’m learning to let go of perfection. What sense is there in a standard you hold only yourself to? The world is already (im)perfect and beautiful.

I grew up with two survival strategies: perfectionism and worry-as-protection. One I inherited from my mother; the other has uncertain origins, but I recognise it as a close cousin of the first. Both are means to an end: control; that is, the illusion of safety, or a chance at relief—from chaos, uncertainty, criticism, hurt, danger. I don’t know if it was the same for my mother, or if it served her well, but for me it has mainly been a form of self-torture. The more life I live, the clearer it becomes that they are paradoxes—ones that I no longer want to be trapped within.

If you’ve ever lived with what the DSM-5 calls OCD, you might know that one of the underlying beliefs of this insidious parasite is that if I say or do this (just like this), it’ll all be okay. Or the obverse: if I do or say this, everything will go wrong. The fate of an entire life, or some nebulous future that weighs the universe, hinges on the pinpoint fulcrum of whether I choose lychee or grape juice at the corner shop. Instead of skipping straight to “that’s crazy talk” (because on even half a millimetre of closer inspection, yes, it is blatantly not how the universe unfolds), what if we asked the parasite—and the universe—a few questions?

First, a deep breath. One of many.

Rock scene from Everything Everywhere All At Once, directed by the Daniels (A24)

Interviewer: How can such inconsequential acts determine repercussions of such grand scale and consequence?

Parasite: I don’t know. They just do.

Universe: (They don’t)

I: Why does it feel like life-and-death?

P: Because that’s what the consequences of doing the “wrong” thing felt like at the time. Because the world was much smaller then—the size of a room, a flat or a school.

I: At the time?

P: Childhood.

I: Of course.

U: (Of course) (Breathe)

I: So doing the “right” thing meant being safe from those consequences?

P: Well… no.

I: Why not?

P: Because it was all so unpredictable. Bad things could and did happen at any moment. But if we did things “right”, performed the “right” ritual, there was a chance of being safe from harm.

I: I understand. It’s interesting that you use the word ritual. Magic and superstition can overlap with ‘OCD’ too. What were these bad things, for you?

P: Monsters. Terror. Mother. Rage. Explosion. Punishment. Pain.

I: Wasn’t there someone else there to protect you?

P: No.

U: (Breathe)

I: I’m sorry. Then I can understand why you did what was within your power—what little you had of it—to hope they would prevent these bad things from happening.

P: Thank you.

I: So what about now? Are you safe now?

P: Yes and no. Still, old habits die hard.

I: Have you tried letting go of them?

P: Yes.

I: What happens when you don’t do the “right” thing?

P: Nothing, apart from the initial surge of fear. Sometimes good things. Sometimes neutral things. Usually not bad things.

I: Was it hard to say that last one?

P: Yes. In many cultures including our own, there are phrases (said and avoided), gestures, rituals, and symbols that are intended to ward off misfortune, harm or evil.

I: Do you think there is a cultural element to all this?

P: Maybe, but it’s hard to distinguish between what is culturally or traumatically embedded.

I: There’s a whole thing about numbers, too, in many traditions.

P: Where is the line between protective magic and compulsion? Ritual and ritual? They share a lot of similarities—magical thinking, for instance—but don’t seem to be one and the same.

I: The answer isn’t clear-cut, and I agree, there are differences. Someone even wrote a paper on OCD and ancient Mesopotamian divination.

P: Have you read it?

I: A bit. I had to take breaks at pages 6 and 8 when they started listing examples of obsessions and compulsions. But they drew some fascinating comparisons to omens and the apotropaic rituals ‘prescribed’ to neutralise the evils these omens portended. The author also talked about the concept of fate in ancient Mesopotamia: What happens in a life is in the hands of the gods and therefore fixed, but not inevitable.

P: So kind of like the idea of God’s plan.

I: Yes! My friend Fam and I were talking just today about what Inshallah means. They said that it is a prayer in and of itself.

We do not have control. Inshallah, God willing, is leaving the will to God. It is only by God’s will and demand that something will happen—something you are seeking, or hoping that something you don’t want to happen will not happen . . . But mostly you would say Inshallah it works out. Whether it happens or doesn’t happen, both are the will of Allah letting us know that it was the right outcome as Allah willed it.

In saying it, you are always remembering God. Always remembering the Divine. It is the understanding of letting go of control because of our human tendencies toward arrogance. And in that surrender, we trust in Allah. And so when saying Inshallah, you should be saying it with remembering Allah. Every time you do, it washes arrogance away.

U: ☺️

P: Wow. I just breathed from that part of me that remembers to breathe again when I step into the woods.

I: Me too. Maybe we can try surrendering more often and seeing what happens?

U: 🫂

P: 🫂

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