OCD is Ruining my Life.

A Retrospective.

Every time I go to take a step forward, OCD shakes it’s germ-free finger and says, “Uh-uh. No no. You’re not ok, so anything you try to fix won’t be ok.”

One thing about being officially diagnosed is you have to deal with people completely misunderstanding and misrepresenting what it actually means. Which, for someone like me, means you’re diminishing a huge part of who I am. 

You like things clean? Cool. 

Everyone has OCD tendencies. It’s not considered an actual diagnosis until it interferes and disrupts daily life. 

Flashback to summer 1999. 

It’s 80°, and I am wearing long sleeves, past my fingertips. I won’t touch anything with my bare skin; if I do, it will mean scrubbing my hands until they are red, raw, cracked and bleeding. If you use a sink after me, a mound of soap bubbles will be left behind, long after I’ve gone. 

I have two sets of clothes, my regular clothes, and my OCD clothes. Those are the ones that shield me like armor. Those are the ones that prevent my skin from coming into contact with, well, anything.

This is not sustainable. And it’s impossible to hide. 

Strangers keep coming up to ask, “Aren’t you hot?”

“No,” I reply, sweat dripping off me.

Cut to the mid 2000s. I’ve created a life for myself, far away from my original triggers. My new friends know I like to wash my hands, a lot. We tend to joke about it. 

It’s easier to hide it. I no longer use long sleeves to cover my hands. I am able to touch things I consider contaminated, as long as I wash my hands, really, really well.

Sometimes, I look around in awe, at [what I consider] “normal” people. I’ll get on a plane and notice someone relaxing in their seat, hair against headrest. They’ll buckle their seatbelt, grab their headphones, and put them over their ears. They’ll put their phone on the tray table, and later lift it to their face.

None of these are things that I can do. Even now, as much as I’m ‘better,’ my OCD will always be a part of me. I will always have a designated plane hoodie for protection. My bare hands will only touch my own possessions. Or you’ll find me scrubbing away in the lavatory. 

I was in a hotel the other day. After breakfast, we were lounging on the bed when my companion decided to get more comfortable. She took her pajama pants from the drawer, laid them on the duvet, and changed into them. Then she slipped under the covers.

More things I cannot do. 

Most of my life has been like this. It’s almost as if it’s ingrained in me. If I touch something I feel is contaminated or dirty, it’s almost second nature to keep my hand balled into a fist.

It’s second nature for me to do irrational things to make myself feel better, because that’s what this is about: me feeling ok. Not contaminated, not dirty. I can’t imagine a me that’s not like this, even though I do remember her. I remember before I displayed symptoms, before I was diagnosed, doing things that most people do without a second thought. 

I remember one summer in high school, between my freshman and sophomore years. I would, could, go out with friends, come home, and sit on the couch in my living room. The entirety of the house wasn’t yet contaminated for me. But once it started, it spread like wildfire. Within several months, the only safe place I had was my room. Within another year or two, I would only have one corner. 

Several days ago, I returned from cleaning out my dad’s house. That in itself is another story, one that I hope to tell soon. But one thing to know is that his house was a trigger for me.

I hate that word: trigger. Especially because it’s so commonly misused nowadays. but in OCD terms, it’s the only accurate word I can think of. 

That’s probably why I’m writing about this now. I was diagnosed with OCD at 16. Anyone that knew me back then, friends, especially family, can attest to just how bad it was. And I don’t think I ever really fully opened up about it, even though I periodically relapse. 

Lately, I’ve been having a lot of mini relapses. It’s probably because I don’t have much to get my mind off of these thoughts that take hold.

I’m tired of going through this alone, especially because I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. Some people, like myself, have contamination fears. There’s also checking, counting, symmetry. But we’re all suffering. We just don’t have to do it alone. 

Addendum:

Everyone wants authentic and real, right?

Want to hear the funniest thing in the world?*

Back in the 90s, my Dad used to record microcassettes for me. While on his travels, he would talk about he was doing or how he was feeling. Any- and everything, because we could always talk about any- and everything.

I recently found one of the cassettes in my memory box, but I could never listen because the accompanying player no longer works.

I just returned home from cleaning out my Dad’s belongings. A microcassette recorder laid among his things. Two, actually. And one had batteries in it, and it still worked. I could go home, and finally listen to the tape. When I was ready.

I did laundry today. Bags. I checked every pocket.

I checked every. Fucking, Pocket… except for a hidden one, I guess, because, I when I took the laundry out, I couldn’t figure out what was wrapped around my bag straps. Until I saw the plastic casing.

The microcassette that he had made me had been in a discreet pocket, because I had brought it somewhere to get digitized. But they weren’t able to accomplish what I needed. So I went home, the cassette tucked away safely in my purse.

And now that microcassette is ruined. It went through the laundry. It’s completely trashed.

So I don’t get to hear his voice again, telling me whatever he had to say, back in the day, which I was going to then transcribe so that his lessons were still here. So a part of him could still be here.

And I want to cry and then I just want to laugh because it’s SO ABSURD.

It’s so absurd. I had the chance, and now I don’t, to hear his voice. And it sucks.

So I hope that’s authentic enough for everyone.

This fucking sucks.

Addendum to the addendum:

And the truth is, I’m too afraid to post this. I’m doing it anyway, but I’m terrified some jackass asshole (jackasshole?) somewhere is going to come across it and say, ‘ha ha you’re fucking dumb.’ Probably just like that, with no punctuation.

I already know. It was a really stupid thing that I did. And I am so fucking mad at myself. But we’re all human, and we all make stupid mistakes like this… at some point.

So once again, I feel alone. But maybe I’m not.