4 minute read
What Netflix’s Squid Game taught me about my anxiety and perfectionism
from Issue 90.2
by On Dit
42
what netflix’s squid game taught me about my anxiety and perfectionism.
Squid Game was Netflix’s 2021 ground-breaking, Korean, twisted thriller-drama-allegorical series. The show is still Netflix’s number one most watched content, recording 1.65 billion hours of viewing in its first 28 days. Yet, despite all this hype, I was very late to the (Squid) Game… pun unashamedly intended. It took me ‘til early January of this year, on a desperately needed lazy day at home – after jumping from exam stress to full-time retail work during the festive season – to watch the hit show. As I binged its nine episodes in all its gory, morbid, dystopian and yet (per the genre) necessary commentary on the inequalities formed through capitalism…I was unaware that the most personally confronting element of the show, would in fact present itself to me in the weeks to follow.
For those who have not seen the series (and as a recap for everyone who has) the show depicts the bankrupt, outcasted, indebted ‘participants’ (our main characters) being faced with several challenges they must complete, to survive and win the prize money they so desire. In every instance, one small mistake has deadly consequences. Literally. One twitch of a muscle, one millimetre lacking precision, one slipping grip, one flawed estimate, one wrong step, and they weren’t just out - they were dead. They were playing children’s games, gambling the most valuable thing we possess…life.
In the weeks following my viewing of Squid Game, I began to almost playfully reflect on this concept. Out driving one day, I went to turn into my chosen park and realised halfway through that I would need to reverse and adjust my position to fit in the spot safely. At that moment, I quietly thought to myself, ‘huh, if parking in one swift move was a squid game, I’d be dead right now’. On another day, I was at work and – sensing the rush of the customer, with their hovering card at the ready – mistakenly hit the payment button too soon. The last item of their transaction didn’t add to the total on our system and left me with the awkward explanation of having to process a second payment. A minor and rare error, of no greater consequence than a 15 second inconvenience and yet I couldn’t help but say to myself ‘Thank God working at this register wasn’t a squid game…’ Little moments like these continued to surface, and in more and more mundane, yet irrational ways. An extended awkward pause during a conversation. A single
typo in a text to a friend. Even briefly tripping (thankfully without a fall) as I walked along North Terrace. Each and every instance - on the premise of a Squid Game - were damning failures.
It eventually occurred to me that my ongoing reflection on the series and the brutality of its armed guards, unmerciful and inhumane, was ultimately a reflection of my anxiety and closely linked perfectionism. I had, well before the series, been living under the same illusion. The irrational belief that any, even minute mistake, would be the end of the world as I knew it. My failures were always a reflection of something greater than what was presented in that moment. (An overuse of ‘internal attribution’ or a flip on the ‘fundamental attribution error’ for those of you familiar). I would often let myself believe that an inability to park in one go (this one time) meant I was not only a terrible driver, but unable to do basic life tasks. That my single error at the register (which I rectified myself) made me a bad employee. And so on. Indeed, my anxiety and perfectionism have for years followed me around like a troop of Squid Game’s armed guards; holding me at gun-point for every irrationally self-labelled ‘transgression’. What a rather morbid moment of introspection that was.
You may ask, what value was there in identifying this connection between the series and my anxious / perfectionist tendencies. Ultimately, it sparked a realisation of ridiculousness. And that’s not to invalidate my own feelings, but to simply recognise that life really isn’t like Squid Game. If I could see the horror and heartlessness in people dying because they flinched when they needed to be still or unintentionally snapped an already very fragile biscuit (what a downer on a nice dessert) … then surely, I could recognise the absurdity in the unforgiving way I approach myself. And in those moments, maybe all I need to say is “This isn’t a squid game”…“You have the ability to forgive yourself. To learn and do better. You’re still here.”
If this piece has raised anything for you then please know you can access the following resources:
