If you lived with me in college, whether as a roommate or a more general housemate, you may remember a recurring Saturday afternoon scene. Maybe you entered the house, coming back from the library, and encountered a pair of black marching shoes strewn across the hall. Further in, spats and wool socks, then a horse-hair sporran, then the signature yellow and black kilt, unspooled, stretching toward a figure lying face-down on the floor, hopefully in the correct room, occasionally not.
That was me after almost every football game in my college career. Some of it was a goof, sure. Despite my generally low self-esteem and tendency to go catatonic when over-stimulated, I've always been flamboyant. I like putting on a show, making reality a little more colorful and story-worthy. And ya boi loves some attention. I mean, I self-published a book and maintain a blog that is 90% me talking about myself (the remaining 10% is me complaining about cartoons not being gay enough).
A lot of my post-game collapse sequence, however, was real.
I played tenor drums in the College of Wooster marching band. Imagine a set of five toms arced in front of your hips, held there by a stiff metal harness that distributes the considerable weight (often heavier than the snares or bass drums on the line) to your lower back and shoulders. With five (or more) drums to work with, the music for tenors can get complicated and showy, and as part of the drumline, it is mission critical that you don't donk up your performance. When all else fails, the percussion has to be there, consistent, timely, and precise.
The prototypical tenor player is tall and muscular. AKA, the tenor players on either side of me in this photo:
Exhibit A
Notice my expression? I'm wearing some variation of it in every photo I have of me marching the tenors.
Exhibit B
Though it may seem indiscernible from a "taking a moderately strenuous dump" face, that's my "oh wow, this hurts so bad I'm kinda worried I'm going to die on this astroturf" face.
For me, that pain could be debilitating, which was why I'd drag myself back to my dorm and strip down as quickly as possible before my muscles could stiffen up and trap me half in, half out of uniform.
Then I'd lie down and wait for the hurt to stop and the exhaustion to pass. Sometimes in the middle of the floor in naught but my undies.
This isn't a "pity me" story. I wanted to play those drums. I chose to put my body through that, because I loved performing, and being part of that group of musicians.
And all that suffering? That's the standard by which I measured my worth.
Because it wasn't just marching band. Everything I did, whether it was creative or academic, had to completely drain me, or I wasn't doing enough. My philosophy was that if I had energy to spare after completing a challenge, that meant I hadn't given my all, and if I hadn't given my all, then I hadn't done my best work, which made it subpar. Unacceptable.
I've been thinking about this lately because while I've mostly eradicated that philosophy from my head, remnants remain. I passed a small licensing exam recently, one that I'd spent a lot of time studying for and fretting over. The week leading up to the test, I essentially reread all of my course material, which was time-consuming and brain-numbing and what was the point of reading it all before if I was just going to read it all again?
Every night, lying in bed, I'd tell Kelsey about my fear that I wasn't working hard enough, that I was going to fail the exam and make a fool of myself and never succeed at anything again. I'm sure she loved having the same dang conversation every night.
After finishing the exam, I had to sit in my car for a few minutes, waiting for the shaking and nausea to pass. I drove home in half a trance, and my brain turned to mush for the rest of the week. I was proud, but not just of passing. I was proud that I'd fought so hard that my brain couldn't manage basic math the next day, despite being able to calculate the blend of interest and principal in the sixth payment of a 30-year mortgage for the test.
What a dumb thing to be proud of.
I passed the test with plenty of points to spare. I didn't have to worry and cram in such an all-consuming manner and leave myself intellectually out of commission for a week. I wasted energy. I exacerbated my anxiety, which in turn affected other aspects of my physical health. I wrecked myself for a test on a subject that I actually know pretty well.
The problem with always giving your all is that you have nothing left by the end, and that may be well and good for the occasional game or performance or project, but it's not sustainable when it's applied to every aspect of your life.
It's so easy to feel like you're not doing enough these days. The world seems like it's in shambles, social media instantly informs you of the accomplishments of your peers, and it can all feel like too much to shoulder.
The thing is, you're allowed to take care of yourself, and sometimes that means giving "some" instead of "all." It's not your job to be perfect, and you're not doing anyone any good by running on fumes alone. It's not a point of pride. It's a flawed way to view your worth.
You can't give your all when you're all out.
So next time you're face-down on the floor in a state of partial undress, think about what you gave to get there, and whether it's worth it. And take a heckin' nap while you're at it. You look exhausted.