No, Karen. It turns out you’re not “so OCD.
2019
“Come back and touch me!” shouts the fallen, shriveled maple leaf. “Take a breath of THIS fresh air. It will never be exactly this way ever again and what if not taking a breath of this air will be the reason something bad happens?”, whispers the wind with a menacing waft. The compulsions are forever sheltering just below the surface, ready to step into action at any moment. I’m not sure if it’s more exhausting giving in and performing the ritual or fighting for control. I’m not sure at what point these tics merged so seamlessly into my life, to the point that it just feels normal. I do whatever needs to be done, sometimes unknowingly; like it’s a function as natural as breathing. Other times, I catch myself and get pinned down by its strength.
Although some rituals have dissapated throughout the years, others ruthlessly cling on or get replaced by a new habit. When I was twelve, I first started these rituals as a way to assure myself that I wouldn’t throw up. It was like I made a deal with God and the universe that if I was a good girl and did what my monsters told me to do, that “bad thing” wouldn’t happen. Everything was to be done is successions of four. Repeating words I spoke or words I heard on the television four times each. Every night I prayed forty Our Fathers and forty Hail Mary’s and if I messed up by going over, it had to be done from the beginning. I would outline the faces of the cast of different shows. Light switches needed to be flicked on and off forty times. My hands, arms, and elbows often had to make contact with the screen. I still feel the urge to do this often. My laptop and television are coated in fingerprints. It’s not just screens-it can be with anything- whichever object decides to mess with me; a book, a picture frame, the banister. The length of the list of tics I have is so long it’s almost impressive. Straining my eyes to different corners til I feel a painful sensation, clicking and clearing my throat, tapping my front teeth to my bottom, cracking bones, stepping on certain cracks… There’s a reason that I often times don’t even want to go out into the world in the first place. It’s unknown. What if I stop myself from touching a certain cereal box in the food store and later on that day something awful happens and the only way to reverse it is to go back and find that exact box. What if the food store is closed? What then?! It’s easier to just pick up the damn box and touch it to my knees and my elbows.
This is Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. It’s not a funny label to be thrown onto people’s quirky habits. No, Karen ( apologizes to anyone named Karen that is actually quite lovely.) you are NOT so OCD with where you keep everything on your desk. You just prefer things to be organized. Preferring something to be in alphabetical order or have a color coordinated closet.…Nah-uh. True OCD is comprised of intrusive thoughts thatrefuse to go away. They provide momentary relief to a permanent problem. This can be a debilitating, tormenting disorder that destroys relationships, lives, dreams... I share my stories because even though it is almost 2020, OCD, anxiety, sexual abuse,and body dysmorphia aren’t discussed normally and without judgement. I share my stories because words actually do hurt. I am so sick and tired of biting my tongue when someone makes an ignorant comment or worse, describes themselves with a mental illness like its some sort of meticulous, organized badge of honor or funny anctitode. I’m sharing my story again with the hopes that you can digest this information, gain an understanding, and speak up the next time you hear someone being insensitive and naive. I hope it might inspire YOU to share your truth as well. You never know; it could help someone feel less alone. It could make all the difference.
