Boundaries, Process, and the Small Things That Matter

I often struggle to explain this briefly, because every time I try to condense it, something important feels left out. What I experience is not a single odd habit that stands on its own, but a long-running pattern that shows up across many areas of my life: how I tidy things up, how I work, how I write, and even how I name and represent myself in digital spaces.

I began noticing the pattern through things that seemed trivial. Objects that are not where they belong, arrangements that are slightly off, or tasks left half-finished can make me restless. Not angry, exactly, but tense in a persistent way. As if something remains unresolved, even though, practically speaking, others might consider it good enough. That tension only eases once I fix it—or at least close it in a way that feels right to me.

The same thing happens with processes. In the kitchen, for example, I enjoy cooking. If I cut unwashed ingredients on a cutting board and then, without washing it, continue cutting ingredients that are already clean, my body reacts immediately. There is a sense of disgust that arrives too quickly to be called rational. I know everything will be cooked anyway, yet the discomfort remains. It feels as though a boundary has been crossed and cannot simply be ignored. I am aware this sounds excessive. I often laugh at myself internally. But the reflex still appears.

When someone else does something that is technically my responsibility, the feeling takes on a different form. I am not always opposed to help, but I become uneasy when the process is left untidy. For example, a small patch of grass left behind after yard work, or oil splatter left on the stove after frying, is enough to bother me. Not because the end result is bad, but because, to me, the task is not truly finished. There is a remainder left hanging, and I am not good at making peace with that kind of remainder.

At first, I thought this was simply perfectionism. But the more I observe it, the less accurate that label feels. This is not about wanting everything to be perfect but it is about attachment to process and boundaries. There are certain lines which, when crossed, immediately trigger an emotional response. Not because I want to control others, but because I experience a loss of clarity. I know how something is supposed to be done, and when reality deviates from that, my body reacts before logic has a chance to intervene.

The same pattern appears in more symbolic matters: writing and representation. I am very strict about how names are written, both my own and those of others. If someone presents their name in a specific form, I do not feel entitled to alter it. Armin van Buuren remains “van” with a lowercase v. Øneheart stays Øneheart, not Oneheart. PIKASONIC remains fully capitalized. That form is their identity, and my role is simply to represent it honestly, not to tidy it up according to my preferences.

Interestingly, I am far more sensitive when it comes to my own name. I am uncomfortable with usernames that include numbers, underscores, dots, or additions like “real” or “official.” For many people, those are just technical solutions. For me, they feel like symbolic compromises. A name that should be whole becomes fragmented, as if it requires an explanation I do not actually want to give. Yet the digital world does not always allow ideal choices. When the name I want is already taken, I am forced to compromise. I use it, but I never feel fully at ease. I tolerate it; I do not accept it.

I am also aware that I can write in very different styles. I can be casual, heavy with punctuation, emotionally capitalized, even excessive with hashtags. I have done this before, usually when trying to adapt to certain internet cultures. The issue is not the style itself. The issue arises when I realize it is not my voice. In those moments, it feels like I am performing. There is a distance between what I write and who I actually am, and that distance is very exhausting.

For me, writing is not merely about conveying a message. It is an extension of my position as a subject. When a writing style is forced in order to appear approachable, friendly, or relevant, I feel that something is being sacrificed. Not technical quality, but honesty. That is why, after writing in a way that feels unnatural, there is often an urge to delete, rewrite, or at least withdraw.

On the other hand, there is one space where I feel unusually free: writing code. There, I can deliberately write in ways that frustrate debuggers, experiment recklessly, or create unfriendly structures. Strangely, this causes no inner conflict. Because code, to me, is not a representation of identity. It is a tool. A technical space where I am allowed to play without having to be symbolically honest. There is no existential demand there.

From all of this, I have arrived at a tentative conclusion: what unsettles me most is not disorder, but misalignment. When form is not faithful to meaning, when a process is left open, when symbols are not honest about their origin, my body reacts. I can adapt. I can compromise. But there is always a psychological cost.

I am not writing this to seek justification, let alone a diagnosis. I simply want to document this pattern honestly, without simplifying it or laughing it off as something trivial. Perhaps this is just how my mind works. Perhaps it is a kind of sensitivity that does not always fit a fast and careless world. But as long as I can remain aware of it, create some distance, and choose when to adapt and when to stay true to myself, I think that is enough.

This is not a conclusion. It is more like a note written midway through the journey—an attempt to understand myself without rushing to fix anything.