OCD: Comfort and Anxiety

When I was little, I thought it was normal to count the number of letters in a word and divide it equally in half, cutting the middle letter into two if the number of letters were odd.
I thought it was normal to make sure I stepped an equal amount of times in between each crack in the sidewalk and that if I stepped on a crack, my other foot had to step on the next crack with the exact same footing and pressure as the previous foot had.
I thought it was normal to have fears of body parts---for me, feet. I've been afraid of feet ever since I can remember.

I never spent much time thinking about these little obsessions because they were just little. They didn't hold my life back and they didn't slow me down. They have always been a part of me.

In high school, I realized how much I obsessed over eating things in even numbers and I would spend a lot of time eating my cereal, making sure each bite contained an even number of pieces. Then I would chew an equal amount on each side of my mouth.

I still didn't care though. By this point, I had recognized this was Obsessive Compulsive Disorder but it was just a part of me and everyone in my family had it to some degree. We would laugh about it often and I never told anyone about the anxiety I would feel that seemed to be associated with my OCD.

Peter noticed my OCD right off the bat. I mean, you can't have a fear of feet without your spouse finding out. It just doesn't work that way. Peter knew touching me with his feet would cause me to freak out, often times needing an extra shower or to change my clothes if it happened in certain areas of my body. Close to my hands and face were the biggest trigger areas for me.

Peter knew I had to eat even numbers of things and that I seemed to walk like a drunk person because of my obsession with the cracks in the sidewalk. He knew I counted the dashes and light poles along each street and matched them in pairs so they would stay even. He knew I would often rewrite words on a piece of paper because I didn't use equal amounts of pressure with the pen.

And he hated it.

I think he may have hated it more than I did.

Sure, it was annoying a few times but it was just my quirky way of doing things. I liked the way my OCD felt because it was safe.

During times of trauma, it becomes worse. When things are feeling stable, it seems to just lurk in the background and only controls my life to a certain degree.

Only controls my life to a certain degree... That phrase just feels so weird. And if you don't have OCD, you might not understand what that feels like to me.

A few years ago, when we had just started marriage counseling, Pan had brought up my OCD to our counselor---most likely in an effort to get the attention off of him for a second. I was really frustrated with him for doing so because I AM FINE! And although I still think his reasonings are stupid for why he did that, I am kinda sorta grateful he brought it up. Because I just don't know if I would've ever told my counselor about it.

Because honestly, I don't always notice it.

It's just the way I am.

But we began a discussion in counseling on how OCD can get worse after traumatic events. I actually looked up episodes of Obsessed on Netflix and watched them, shaking my head at these crazy people who did these crazy things for really crazy reasons. I couldn't be grouped in that same category, could I?

The answer is yes, I could. I am. To an extent, that is.

I don't recount the number of tiles in my kitchen to see if the number has changed from the last time. I don't have fears that the floor underneath me will break. I don't keep my kids inside all day every day in fear of the germs in our society. My house isn't obsessively cleaned each and every day.

But I do wash my hands a lot all of a sudden. And I freak out if they start to feel dirty almost instantly. And yesterday, my son licked my daughter's foot and I was in the fetal position on the couch, trying not to vomit from the sheer terror I felt. And if I itch my face on one side, I cannot focus on anything else until I itch the other side an equal number of times with an equal amount of pressure.

And I cannot, CANNOT handle the radio/tv volume being on an odd number. I don't care if I'm at my own house or if I'm at yours. I will make you change it up or down a notch. I will panic until you do so. And the second it is changed, my anxiety will release and I will feel safe again.

This is real life. This is my life. I'm starting to hate it. I'm still really loving it.

It is comfort and anxiety---a package deal that seems so very similiar to my eating disorder.

Comfort and anxiety. You didn't think those two things could coexist, did you?

Well, they can. And for me, they do.

I just don't want help because I fear it. I fear every second I let myself speak of the vulnerable things in my life. I fear the insecurities about how psychotic I am and how unstable this all makes me feel. My OCD is hard to talk about because it really does make me seem bat shit crazy. I'd think that about me if I were you.

This stuff seems ridiculous. But sadly, it's real. And it's my life.

I haven't even fully covered all of my OCD triggers and tendencies. Sadly, this isn't where it ends. This is just a peek into my crazy mind.

Please try to believe me when I tell you I'm not this unstable all of the time. As anxious as I get, I am still a functioning adult and you probably wouldn't know that I had OCD if you met me on the street.

Unless you touch me with your feet. You sure as hell would see my OCD if you ever touch me with your feet. And please oh please oh please, if you know me and are reading this, don't touch me with your feet to be funny. I might laugh---but inside I'll be screaming. And I'm serious about that.