Not your typical, garden variety OCD

Today, I was going to talk about my reasoning behind this blog’s title: “OCDon’t”.  But instead, I feel inspired to tell you about the parts of OCD that people don’t talk about as much.  You see, what most people think of when talking about OCD, is people who are afraid of germs, like things to be neat and tidy, and have quirky little tendencies or rituals, like counting or repeatedly opening and closing doors.

But these are just a few possible examples of what might manifest in a person with OCD.  There’s actually a lot more to it than that. For example, I'm not neat and tidy. I like things to be that way, and when it's an easy, repetitive task, like folding laundry, or washing dishes, I am all over that. But everything else? Well, that's another story. Let me show you something that nobody on the internet has ever seen:

My bedroom.

Does this come to mind when you think "OCD"? Probably not, no. A room like this would make the character Adrian Monk run away screaming. There are library books scattered on the floor, three baskets of "organized" clothes (and a pile of dirty clothes around the corner), stacks of mail and empty CD cases, random snacks, a camp chair, etcetera, etcetera. These are probably more or less "normal" things to be in a person's room, albeit a rather messy room. But then there are other things. If you look at the right corner of my desk, you'll notice two plastic mayonnaise jars, and another one of glass. Behind that white board is a stack of about a dozen collapsed cereal boxes. Somewhere in there (I can't even see it) is a glass jar full of can tabs and bottle lids, and then on the floor, near my bed, there's another one full of quarters.

One possible symptom of OCD is the inability to separate what is worthless from what is worthwhile. Things that other people would find to be junk, looks like treasure to us. What you see above isn't half of what I used to have. I went through a phase when I was a teenager, of collecting ice cream tubs. I almost stole one from a garbage can at my church (well, they weren't using it), but I realized I couldn't smuggle it out unnoticed. More recently, I had a thing with glass. I had glass bottles, jars, and vases, lined up on my desk and shelves, unable to throw it away. I finally did about a year ago (but I made sure to recycle it). I only have one of them left, a soda bottle from my old job at the restaurant. These things, I can't throw them away. They feel important, and I need them. I know they are worthless. I know that they're just taking up space. I know that whatever it is I pretend to plan to do with them (I wanted to store stuff in the ice cream tubs, or make a work of art from the tabs, or build a ukulele from the cardboard boxes, which I admit I'm still kind of holding out on) whatever it is, it's never going to happen. I never did anything with any of them. But I felt that to throw them away would be a crime. I couldn't stand it. I couldn't stand watching other people throw them away, and sometimes I would root them out of the garbage, just so I could have them.

I've gotten better over the years. Now I have only three jars, instead of twenty, and my boxes take up a lot less space than my ice cream tubs. But it's still there, in the back of my mind. Thankfully, since the boxes are out of my sight, I'm starting to forget about them, and in a few months, I may be able to throw them away without too many qualms.

But my point is: OCD isn't what they show on TV. There are so many different ways that it shows up, so many different kinds of it. Not everyone is Adrian Monk, just like not everyone with schizophrenia ends up killing people, or not everyone with an eating disorder is really- over or under-weight.  

My dad has OCD too, but unlike me, he has no problem handling raw meat. I see him touch it, put it next to other foods, touch other things after handling it, and it doesn't bother him at all. I'm not sure, but I think he doesn't even wash his hands all the time after dealing with it. I, on the other hand, get extremely anxious doing anything with it. After touching raw meat, I have to wash my hands at least three times in order to feel clean again (used to be seven times: I'm improving!). But that's not all: if I touch the plastic that raw meat is in, I have to wash my hands. Most times, if I touch a bag that contains raw meat wrapped in plastic, I still have to wash my hands. It drives me absolutely nuts when I see him plop something raw down on the counter, because my brain goes "What is he, crazy? He's going to kill us all!!!"

If you, or someone you know, has OCD, they may or may not be anything like me, or those portrayed on TV. We're all different, that's just the way it is. I've kind of lost track of my train of thought, so I'll leave you with this: soon, I will bring out the truth about OCD, and (more specifically) why I named the blog OCDon't.

To be continued...
Penny