Challenge, Day 7/7

Today, I watched a video depicting a girl wiping down every airport and airplane surface with a clorox wipe. And as per usual, I ran to the comments, popcorn in hand. I was so curious what people had to say.

One question stood out: “are you really actually OCD?” And for some reason, the resulting comments absolutely infuriated me.

As someone who was officially diagnosed at 16, I’ve come to realize that most people really don’t understand what OCD is – or isn’t. They know what the initials stand for, but don’t seem to understand what it can actually entail.

I remember being 16 years old, watching some news special – something in the vain of 60 Minutes, but it wasn’t 60 Minutes. It told the stories of 3 people living with OCD. The last story included Howie Mandel, and how he had a separate house on his property to send his wife and kids to when they fell sick.

I can’t remember the other stories, who was involved or what the details were. But I connected with all of them. I remember watching and thinking to myself, ‘this is me. This explains a lot.’ For the first time since my habits manifested, I felt less alone.

At the end of the broadcast, there was an address, where you could write in to request a transcript of the show. So I did. This was the first time I had felt seen since all of my “quirks” had started becoming more pronounced, 2 years earlier. I remembered what life was like before those “quirks;” not having to overthink or worry about contamination.

At the time, the Big Defining Moment of my life was the before and after of being diagnosed. I can remember exactly when it all started. If I regale the story, it probably won’t make much sense. ‘Amanda Logic’, I call it. Because it makes sense to me, even though it’s illogical in reality.

But I live in my reality. And it all started with a letter.

Maybe one day I’ll tell the tale. It’s so simple, so silly, and yet really kicked off this path of becoming a fundamental part of me that I am to this day. Your teen years are quite formative and have this way of encompassing your true self – the one you grow into and the one you try to find your way back to, years later.

But today is not one day. And the origin doesn’t matter. Anyone who knows me at all knows that I wash my hands, a lot.

What they don’t know is that I don’t just wash my hands a lot.

My fear lies in contamination, hence why my compulsion is hand washing. Also lysoling, cloroxing, and other forms of chemical warfare against invisible germs and contaminants. It’s not feeling clean, and reminding myself that they say to wash your hands for at least 20 seconds (who are they anyway? Scientists? Doctors? The CDC?).

So I grab my Dial disinfectant soap, and I lather up, and I start to count to 20 reeaaalllllly sloowwllllly, drawing it out so I know I definitely hit the correct amount of time. Except once that time is up, I don’t stop. Instead, I keep scrubbing, repeatedly, until my hands are raw and there is a mound of bubbles in the sink. I joke that you can always tell when I ‘ve been there.

In addition to drying out my hands by incessant hand washing rituals, there have been times I refused to touch things, lest I contaminate myself. People don’t understand what it’s like, not being able to touch any- and everything because you’re convinced it’s dirty or its contamination will spread.

The video comments infuriated me, because it felt like people were being dismissive of what actually constitutes OCD; subsequently, dismissing me. Their doubling down on what constitutes OCD was simply proof that the loudest voices are usually the wrong ones.

I wish people would understand that everyone has some obsessive compulsive tendencies. It’s only when it disrupts your daily life that it falls into disorder territory.

And as many people can attest, disrupt my life it does.

Imagine not being able to touch things without washing your hands afterwards. Now imagine how many things you touch a day. Most people don’t even realize how often you pick up or brush against things. Most people aren’t hyper-aware. I on the other hand, can’t not notice. I can’t shut off the thoughts that drown out everything else. Once I grab onto a thought, I cannot let it go.

OCD is individualistic. My experience with it might mirror someone else’s, but ultimately can only be my own. And hearing people discount what I go through on a daily basis and think it’s not OCD is just odd. Like being told that who I think I am is not actually who I am.

Today, repairs were done in our apartment to bring it up to building code. This was one of those events that exacerbates my OCD. Having someone enter one of the few places left I can exert control over was jarring. Physically letting outsiders in means allowing myself to not hold on as tightly as usual and relinquish a bit of control, while trying to maintain that I will still feel ok in the end.

It’s now been several hours since I was left alone in my apartment, many of them spent cleaning to a standard so high, I myself can barely live up to it.

Now that time has passed, I’m not as mad at the comments anymore. Let people dismiss me. Let them lack understanding. They’re probably not the right people I want in my life, anyway. Only I know what or who I am, and although I’m still figuring it out, I don’t need a bunch of strangers to tell me.