My OCD

I realized this afternoon that I truly am envious of people who do not have OCD. I have exhibited OCD tendencies for a very, very long time but it hasn’t been until the last two years that it has become so bad that it affects my life. I recognized what it was doing two years ago and took the appropriate steps to treat it (along with my depression) but the combination of therapy and medication had near disastrous results and I went cold turkey from both therapy paths this past November. So I live with my OCD, not the easiest thing, and it’s becoming bothersome again. Today has been a frustrating prime example of what my life is like.

The day started out as usual with my Joey cat annoying me awake too early, especially for the first day of spring break. I’m used to it by now so I just go ahead and start my day. After running a couple errands, I settled in for an afternoon of working on a new story. I was doing fine until a tiny little idea wiggled its way into the back of my head. I tried to push it away and continue on with my work but eventually, it overtook my whole thought process. I couldn’t not think about it.

Now it wasn’t that the idea was a bad one – it was an idea for a homemade birthday gift – but I was also considering my OCD. There are many aspects to my OCD (I’ll get to those soon) but one of them is that anything I make for a gift needs to be spot on perfect. If I know there’s one tiny thing wrong I’ll remake the item which often leads me to become so frustrated that I freeze up and cannot finish whatever I’m making. This is awful because there have been times when I’ve been unable to complete a gift and then have felt like a complete idiot because I was giftless. So I feel I have been getting a little bit better because I do think of these past struggles when I think about giving a homemade gift. This time, sadly, I could not talk myself out of this idea.

It kept gnawing at me and I knew that if I didn’t act on it, I would just continue to focus on the idea over the next hours and days and probably ruin my spring break. I looked at what supplies I had and felt glad that I found just the right paper for the gift but knew my tchotchke (doodads) stores were in short supply.

I guess at this point I should explain my homemade gift. I love to give the gift of haiku (I love haiku because of its set pattern, go figure). I like to put together little books of personalized haiku. I put each one or a couple on a fancy little piece of paper with coordinating (of course) pieces of ribbon, little gems, and other assorted doodads. I bundle the dozen or so haiku together and voila, I give the gift of haiku.

I really hoped that I could just make do with what I had but I was completely out of ribbon and didn’t really have any little ornamental items that went with the paper that I already knew I just had to use. I tried to talk myself out of the project again but I just could not shake it from my being. When I get this way, I know I am too weak to stop myself. It is frustrating and sad.

I knew I had to go to the craft store.

Craft stores are very scary for me. I only go if I absolutely have to. Just like with many, many Americans, money is tight for me (thus the homemade gift) and I have been known to go in for one inexpensive item and come out with a couple dozen inexpensive items. I know better than to go into the craft store but with this stupid idea (the gift isn’t stupid but the obsessive thinking is stupid and maddening and honestly, frightening) eating me up inside, I knew that if I didn’t go, I was going to become ugly.

But I was at least a little smart and located a 40% off one item coupon and I gave myself a stern pep talk about losing my head in the store. I took examples of the paper I was going to use and looked at all clearance and sale items first. I debated each and every item, thought about each page (even though I have yet to get to the haiku part which’ll be a cinch compared with designing the pages) and what I wanted them to look like. I even contained myself to a very small portion of the store.

And I still spent $39. :/

To be honest, it’s not like the gift is actually costing that much since I have enough tchotchke to probably make six additional books but it’s just the fact that once again, my asinine OCD is costing me money. If I hadn’t gone, the obsessing about it would have cost me more of my sanity and at this point, I don’t know which is more important – money or my sanity. So I have what I need to make my gift but instead of me obsessively thinking about the supplies needed, I’m berating myself for having bought the supplies. I’m not thinking how the person will (hopefully) love the gift or it will (hopefully) bring a smile to their face. No, I’m thinking how stupid I was to buy these little doohickeys. I hate that this gift will be tinged with self-anger and hatred.

OCD stinks. It really does.

Now, I’m thinking about just taking the stuff back and just forgetting the gift which sucks because the person deserves a gift. I’ll feel stupid about not giving a gift. And then I’ll beat myself down over that. And then the panic attack will come and then the tears and then the cycle will start all over again.

I always tell my students about my OCD. It’s actually a little warning because I color code each of my classes and will sadly flip on a student if they put their work in the wrong colored basket (I do make it sound funny, though, because I don’t want to hurt their feelings). They’re actually really good about it because I think OCD is becoming a more prevalent disorder thanks to various TV shows. My kids get my color coding aspect of OCD right away but they are curious about what else my OCD does so I tell them. Often, I can show them. When I make new posters for the classroom about reading skills, they can see that I’ve used a ruler to write perfectly straight. They know that when I write on my whiteboard, I get very frustrated because I write with an uphill slant. I have to print so each letter is formed perfectly (this does tend to ebb and flow but not lately). I have a fancy electronic whiteboard that I can’t use because you cannot write perfectly on it. The rows of desks must be straight. The books on the bookshelves must be perfect.

My desk either has to be spit-spot perfectly clean (as it is right now) or if it does become a mess, NO ONE CAN TOUCH ANYTHING BECAUSE I KNOW EXACTLY WHERE EVERYTHING IS. Sadly, when I missed a day, my sub thought she’d be a dear and clean my desk. That sub is no longer allowed back in my classroom.

The students ask me if my apartment is clean as a whistle and I explain that it’s not. My OCD is surprisingly not bothered by cat hair or the fact that Joey the Basement Cat needs to dig to China every time he has to use the litter box. My dirty clothes, however, have to be in specific hampers. They can’t go into the same hamper at all. When my OCD is really, really bad, any towel I use must be folded in a specific way. And the canned cat food must be like this now. Always. This started a few months ago. I don’t know why.

The real reason why my apartment is not exactly perfectly clean because every time I try to do a thorough cleaning, I start organizing. When I start organizing, I can’t stop and cleaning goes out the window. I have learned to maintain and quick do the basics before I get sidetracked by organizing drawers and cupboards. I can’t do spring or fall cleaning because that becomes torture. I have to organize instead of clean and then I get mad at myself because I didn’t clean and that awful cycle starts in. It honestly is hell. I would probably benefit from having a cleaning lady. Putting groceries away is not fun either.

Then there is the number 3. I call it my OCD number. I do lots of things in 3s. I lock my door 3 times before leaving the apartment building. I check my alarm clocks 3 times before falling asleep. If I can split up my teaching block into 3 activities, I know the day is going to go well. Prime numbers make me giddy also. And the number 8? It’s my favorite and I can’t tell you how ecstatic I was when I toured my apartment before moving in and saw that the apartment number added up to 8. I also live in building C, the 3rd letter of the alphabet. My garage number? 34. What’s half of 34? 17, a prime number. What’s 1+7? 8. When I turn the volume up on my TV it has to stop on a prime number. Or a number that can be divided by 3. I guess I don’t have to tell you that I have a numbers thing. I can go to town on numbers. It’s one of my dirty little secrets.

Oh, I also wash my hands. A lot. And if my OCD is raging, I admit that the water has to be really, really hot. And I always have to check to make sure the apartment door is locked. It’s not uncommon for me to have to get out of bed at night to make sure it’s locked even though I might have checked it fifteen minutes earlier.

I know all these things are my OCD and they bother me but it is what it is. I wonder a lot if my OCD would be in better check if I wasn’t so isolated or alone. I wonder how many people will think less of me now because of my OCD explanations.

I wonder a lot what it would be like to not have OCD.