OC-Fuck Me.

Would you pick up poison ivy in bare hand? Would you grasp a wasp in your bare hand?

No? Huh.

(And don’t get me started on those of who are immune to poison ivy and not afraid of pain.)

For someone with severe OCD, anxiety, and depression (one often leads to the other—kinda chicken and egg thing) that is what touching a doorknob is akin to. Every OCD person has his own “obsessions.” Mine are germs. Door knobs, gas pumps, grocery carts, other people’s pens, someone else’s hand, MONEY, a public floor, a bathroom not own…poison ivy…wasps. Seriously.

Actually, I would rather pick up poison ivy or a wasp than touch a doorknob.

Intellectually I can reason that thinking away. Intellectually I know many things: money will not contaminate me; wearing clothes outside the house does not make them dirty; eating 13 instead of 14 or 12 Triscuits is not going to hurt me; not crossing myself (Catholic style) is not going to make a bad number less powerful; placing the volume on 24 is not going bring Armageddon; and wiping down my phone, Kindle, cigarette case and lighter is not going to give me bronchitis; not checking the front door, stove, window locks 72 rather than 2 times is not going burn my house down or invite a burglary.

Yeah, toward the end there when I was living alone and working full time—before the nut house, I wore latex gloves when I got home and Lysol-ed everything. I ruined my key fobs with Lysol. I would wipe down everything in my purse. Anything that came from school was dirty. I stopped grading papers at home because I would have to keep a towel on my lap and then wash up to elbows in the tub before eating. I Lysol-ed every surface, doorknob, light switch—hell, even my body! Shoes—um, no fucking way! T. emotionally smacked me good because he does not approve of Birkenstocks. He says they are hippie. When mine wore out he told me that wearing sandals would get germs all over my feet. I tried wearing boots until the heat index reached 100 degrees. Now, I just Lysol my feet. Before I left school, I had to wipe down every surface I touch in the classroom. You think I am gonna let anybody touch my phone or computer—fuck no. FORGET ABOUT SICK PEOPLE. Then there are safe places and exceptions—my cat is not dirty. Her puke is gross but not threatening. I eat in restaurants. I touch the steering wheel (DIRTY) and then light up a cigarette.

None of this shit is rational, dear hearts!

It’s down right fucking crazy and I know it. AND, it is so fucking exhausting. The world is the enemy. Everything is out to get you. Those demons…Saint Michael help me. I know it is irrational, but I still do it. But as least I don’t drink Listerine—T.!

Aye, there’s the RUB! Emotionally, my anxiety shoots to the level of life-threatening when faced with touching money or a bathroom doorknob. I am incredibly agile with my feet and using my clothes as barriers. The anxiety, however, is way worse than the time it takes to do the ritual or the crazy things. So, I do the crazy things. At least I don’t drink Listerine—T.!

BECAUSE I MIGHT GET A COLD, BRONCHITIS, AN UPPER RESPITORY INFECTION. THEN I CAN’T SMOKE. SMOKING IS MY BEST FRIEND, WHO MAKES LIFE WORTH LIVING. I'M NOT AFRAID OF EBOLA OR NOROVIRUS OR DYING--WHAT RELIEF. I'M WORRIED ABOUT A COLD. (I just crossed myself.)

It is certifiable. Truly. But, then look at our presidential candidates.

And, more psychologically: I feel out of control in my life. The more stress; the more OCD. So, the more out of control I feel, I try to control what I can. Like buttering my roll nine times. (Yes, “ninnne times”—name the movie!) I can’t control T. drinking my sister’s whiskey, filling it up with water, and lying about it. But, I can control washing my hands for 60 seconds.

Brain chemistry. It has to be. Oh, I admit that I’m nuts. But my brain chemistry is different than the person who just opens the door with his bare hand. How free life is for that person who doesn’t germ-gel his hands so much in the winter that his knuckles bleed. People who have diabetes, ulcerative colitis, arthritis—something is not working right in their bodies.

The same with OCD, anxiety, and depression.

You would never say to someone who has Parkinson’s—“Wow, are you still dealing with that? Get over it already.”

Living life that way on a daily basis. Seeing germs on groceries and magazines and mail and keys and table tops, and sink handles and oh, my…is tiring and depressing. Living life that way make you want to use the Nuclear Option.

But, not on G-Pa’s couch. Nope, can’t take the Nuclear Option there.

So, how do ya' think I feel about going back to work? Bring on the poison ivy and wasps, baby.

I am anxious (seriously) just writing about this shit and now I want a cigarette.

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless.