A plaid high school uniform skirt. An old Drexel sweatshirt. Ex-boyfriend’s sweater. Another ex-boyfriend’s sweater. These are just a few of the many items I own which have fallen victim to a strange, strange fate. For as long as I can remember, I’ve practiced a habit that a friend once named “threading.” Put simply, I rip thread out of various items of clothing and rub said thread between my fingers, gaining some sort of inexplicable release from the process. For years and years I’ve been doing this, slowly but surely unraveling and mangling several items in my closet as a result and even having to throw some – okay, many – away. Friends who know me well know better than to lend me a sweater if they hope to get it back in one piece.

I’m the first to admit, it’s a weird habit. And, barring some bullshit Freudian explanation about tactile fixations, I’ve never been able to fully explain, even to myself, how it started or why I do it. Nor have I ever met anyone else who shares my habit. For this reason I’ve always been extremely embarrassed about it, about having to bring an old t-shirt to the library to “thread” while I study so I don’t leave at the end of the day with my own shirt half missing. I know it’s by definition destructive, and I know it’s impractical. But is it really something to be ashamed of?

I think about these basically harmless habits or vices – nail-biting, gum chewing, finger-drumming – and I think about the way we’re often shamed for having them. Of course there are more destructive vices and substances that can drive one toward addiction and dependence, but I’m not talking about that stuff. It’s the smaller, idiosyncratic habits that inexplicably make us feel shame – for not being perfect, for not being able to sit still, for needing or desiring some sort of physical release. I know I turn to “threading” whenever I’m stressed, because it’s soothing. The fabric is a mediator between my anxiety and whatever I’m trying to face or focus on at the moment. Embedded in all these clothing items I’ve semi-destroyed are memories of SAT-prep, emotional issues, seemingly hopeless situations, and yes, several dried tears. Yet somehow, though the fabric and seams on these items have unraveled and been destroyed, I’ve remained in tact. And as a perfectionist myself, I think these pieces of destroyed clothing are important reminders that success and happiness – if they’re even possible goals to begin with – come at the cost of a little wear and tear, and that’s okay. I know graduating from college usually implies some level of maturation, and in a way it’s the perfect time for me to wean myself off this weird habit. But I don’t think I’m going to. After all, what would finals be without another ruined sweater?