Safety of the Familiar

When I wrote about Depression, Anxiety, and Control, I mentioned that:

When I start any kind of roleplaying game (whether Dungeons & Dragons, my 67th playthrough of Skyrim, or anything else), I plot out a plan for my character's progression. I have spreadsheets outlining the order in which I'll take feats, skills, abilities, and spells. It's all there. It's not (always) about "min/maxing" or optimizing; it's about getting the vision of who I want the character to be and how the game mechanics help me get there.

But "getting the vision" doesn't convey what's really going on. It's extremely difficult for me to not do that. If someone forced me to play a new roleplaying game, with no time to plot out my character and only advancing character progression "on the fly," I'd be paralyzed at each decision point, I'd feel sick, and (pre-medication) I might have a panic attack.

But that's not the only way playing games highlights my struggles with mental health.

In August of 2023, after I moved into my condo, I treated myself to living room upgrades: new loveseat, new TV, new sound system, and a new videogame console. I started replaying The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim before I moved, and with my shiny PS5, I re-started again.

The PS5 tallies the hours played, and since I got the PS5, I've played close to 3,000 hours of this almost 14-year-old game. That doesn't count several hundred hours on the PS4. It definitely doesn't count at least 1,000 hours on my Xbox 360 back when Skyrim came out in 2011.

I'm not certain, but I think the newest videogame I've played came out in 2019. My PS5 library has several "new" games (relatively, as I've not bought a game in a couple years) that I "really want to play." I haven't started any of them. I haven't played anything other than Skyrim for at least two years.

What's up with that?

Safety.

Mastery of Skyrim means that I don't have major decisions to make. It means when something goes wrong, I know how to fix it. It means I know what will happen as I progress through the various questlines, so I never have to face the unexpected. I know how to make different character archetypes. There are no decisions I have to make "on the fly." I know everything will be okay because I know what's going to happen.

As I gain more insight, I see that this permeates my entire life. And I feel stunted.

I've seen fewer movies than anyone I know, because I've watched the same ones more often than anyone I know. I've read fewer books. I have fewer friends. I've been fewer places. I buy the same things from the same brands at the same stores. I eat the same meals. I listen to the same songs. I walk the same route. I wear my clothes on a rotation. (I literally have a picture of the order of my socks so I don't mess it up.)

It's safe. It's also crippling. If the exact cottage cheese I want (Daisy, 2%, 24 ounces) isn't in stock, I agonize about what I'll do. I know that a serving of that cottage cheese, 113 grams, which I weigh out every single day, is the exact protein, calories, and carbs around which I planned my lunch. A different brand might have a different amount of protein, so how much do I eat in a serving? The 24 ounce tub is 6.0177 servings at 113 grams, which isn't exactly right, but it's as close as I'll get to an exact number of servings per container. If I have to adjust because the protein in a brand is different, I'll finish either too early or too late.

This isn't hyperbole. That's what my brain does for everything!

If I know what's going to happen, or the most likely possibilities, I can plan. I know everything will be okay, even if it sucks for awhile. If I don't know what's going to happen, I don't know everything will be okay.

But that's true for everybody, right? Why does my brain get paralyzed when I don't know?

Because in the most formative years of my life, when my brain was growing the most, and when certain people were supposed to keep me safe, terrible things happened to me. And the people who were supposed to keep me safe caused most of them.[n.1]

I wasn't always like this. In preschool, I was spontaneous, tried new things, and played with everyone who would play with me. But I gradually changed. I learned, deep down without knowing I learned it, that unless I knew what was going to happen, even when things should be okay, they will repeatedly not be. If I didn't know what was going to happen, I was never safe. The places where and the people with whom I should have been safe were the least safe.

I internalized this. It became part of who I am. I'm never safe unless I know what's going to happen, unless I can make a plan, unless I know how to avoid or escape, and unless I know what the terrible thing will be so I know how to survive after it happens. The terrible thing I know is coming is safer than the unknown, even if it probably won't be terrible.

During the hundreds of hours of therapy I had between February 2023 and January 2024, I picked up some tools that help me handle this: medication, and the "What If?" or "arrow down" technique.[n.2] When the magnification version of the catastrophizing cognitive distortion strikes, I take it head on by leaning into it. "What's the worst thing that could happen?" "Then what worst thing happens next?" "What comes next?" And I don't stop until I can't go further; I'm either dead, or I found a way to survive. When I'm dead, whatever happened doesn't matter anymore (to me). If I survive, I handled the worst of the worst. Either way, it will be okay. Even if I don't know what's going to happen, everything will be okay.

When I can't plan, and I remember, I "arrow down." It's hard to do, and it takes a lot of effort. When I can plan, when I can make myself sure of what's going to happen, I do.

So, I watch the same movies, read the same books, spend time with the same small group of people.

And I keep playing Skyrim.

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n.1 I might write about this more sometime.

n.2 The Internet doesn't seem to use these names. In particular, the "Downward Arrow" technique from CBT isn't the same thing. Perhaps "Arrow Down" is a regional name, or just the name my program used.