OCD

by Morgan Sagdahl

Now I lay me down to sleep I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Now I lay me down to sleep. Now I lay me. Now I. Now I can finally go to sleep after screaming angel prayers in my head four times to keep bad spirits away. Mommy said it was because I had OCD. But I told her I wanted CDO so the letters were in alphabetical order like they should be. I googled it just to be sure. And at the age of eight, I chose not to identify with the people I’d heard of with this condition. I didn’t repeatedly wash my hands or make sure my room was neat. I just made lists a lot. They were stapled to the walls in my bedroom to remind me who my friends were in what order or what I wanted, by category and price, for Christmas or what I did on May 17^th, 2006 all the way from brushing my teeth to spitting out my winterfresh gum into the garbage can by the teacher’s desk in Mr. McNeil’s science class at 9:32am. I found comfort in this organization as well as the oral fixations such as sucking on a pacifier until I was fourteen like a rave girl or biting my nails. I think this is because I was breastfed until age four.

Obsessive. People usually begin to abuse the word usage of this disorder beginning with the word obsessive. Obsessive isn’t making your bed after you wake up or using hand sanitizer when it’s convenient for you. Obsessive is when people start to call you crazy, when you start to believe them. Check my bedroom. Against the walls lined up with their labels clearly displayed are sixteen water bottles filled with the shells of sunflower seeds that I chewed two summers ago. Under my bed, in filing boxes is all the coursework and in-class assignments I’ve ever done in my entire lifetime. In that cubby over in the corner you’ll find hats I’ve never worn and the posters I had in the room I once shared with my sister that’ll never find their ways to the walls again. I don’t know why I have to keep this stuff, but I remember we had matching sheets. It won’t be long before you learn why I don’t invite people over. And if you think that’s a mess, you can’t imagine the atrocity going on in my head. I can’t help but think I have too much control. If I think bad thoughts, bad thoughts come true. I’ve sat idle and cried for hours fearing that something is going to happen because I accidentally thought of it. You don’t know what it’s like to be so afraid of molesting a child or killing a family member without any desire to do so. To believe that I’ve got some illness or disease that no one’s ever heard of let alone knows how to diagnose and then I’m sure I’m going to die soon. Horrible tragic images crawl into my mindset and I haven’t mastered a cleansing technique yet. So I keep my things in multiples of four to counterbalance the effects of my impurities.

Compulsive. This is the part that gets skipped over in people’s mind. Compulsive means you can’t control it. You don’t think to control it. It just happens. I spend my time at home sitting in a rocking chair, pushing myself back and forth until my legs fall asleep. I’ve come the conclusion that I’ll never be able to live in a house without a rocking chair. In my house, we have four. But that satisfaction isn’t enough to keep me from picking at my physical imperfections. I have scars on my arms from trying to remove asymmetrical freckles. And I’ve been zapped with lasers to fix the ones on my face. Certain habits digest me alive. On numerous accounts, I’ve mourned tragedy at the top of the stairs after realizing I forgot to skip every fourth one. I’ll go barefoot if I can’t find matching socks. Check my texts. It takes more than average strength to put only one exclamation point at the end of that sentence. I wish I was exaggerating.

Disorder. I try so hard to hide this entirety in public. But when one contact falls out, I must take the other one out even if it leaves me blind. It pushes me beyond thinking logically or conveniently. I cut pizza slices in half so four will only really be two, and I won’t get sick after eating. I count my m&ms and my oreos and the slices of turkey on the sandwich I made for lunch this morning. It’s incredible how people never notice me sorting them, but I guess I’m just sneaky and they’re too naïve to remember to push in their chairs before they leave so I’m always the last one out of class. Check my math homework. It’s on graph paper and each letter has its own box otherwise my day is ruined. I’m paranoid constantly. I won’t even step on sidewalk cracks. People tell me to walk with my eyes looking forward instead of down, but I don’t play around with superstition.

I met a girl one time who kept her purse clean. She claimed to have OCD instead of taking pride in her neatness, she reached out for attention by telling people there was something wrong with her. She had long fingernails. Now between you and me, having long nails doesn’t mean there’s nothing wrong with you… necessarily. But I am obsessive compulsive. And yes, it is a disorder. It’s a psychiatric anxiety abnormality and I know that nervous people have a tendency to bite their nails down short. In psychology class we learned that there’s no cure and no proven successful treatment. I guess I will never have hands like the pretty girls.