I have obsessive-compulsive disorder. Not, like, on purpose. I didn’t buy it or put it on a wish list or anything. I got it for free like a present — or the flu.
Like how an alcoholic can’t stop drinking after one drink, I cannot stop thinking after one thought. I’m also an alcoholic, but that’s another tale for another time. It’s not unrelated, though — you know what I can’t do if I’m drunk? Worry.
This kind of obsessive mind gets shit done, which is great, but it doesn’t turn off when it’s time. Like a heater that works for the winter but doesn’t turn off when summer rolls around. And when that happens, the obsessions go off into things beyond work and self-improvement and into pointless things like adding and subtracting and counting and assigning numbers the roles of “good” and “evil.” I curse the teacher who taught me simple math.
People’s life spans, how famous I will be, if my leg gets broken tomorrow — all under my control. It’s really such a cocky disorder.
At a base level, without any therapy, I walk around believing that little actions, like tapping a table or counting enough things by twos, can decide mine and other people’s fate. Now I know on a conscious level that I can’t really do these things, but it’s hardwired into my brain that I can. So I am compelled to try to control my life through flicks of light switches and even numbers.
I feel the looks I get from strangers when I grab the pole on the train three times before settling my hand on it. But they don’t understand that the future of my dad’s health rests upon those taps. It is up to me. People’s life spans, how famous I will be, if my leg gets broken tomorrow — all under my control. It’s really such a cocky disorder.
We can all breathe because I counted the total number of lights on that truck stopped at a stoplight by twos, and it came out to an even number. Everything fits perfectly. Relax, everyone. I saved the day.
I try to assure myself that these powers I have aren’t real, since they’re such a ridiculous form of torture. They didn’t start off as torture, though. They were a protection. When things were out of control and swirling around me during my turbulent childhood, it helped to think I could make a difference in my life through things a six-year-old could do, like count a little and touch things. It helped. When my parents were in jail or attempting suicide (they both did both), I grabbed onto what I could, which was making sure I sat on the side of the table that seemed to hold the most promise for everyone’s future. Or that would turn me into a mermaid, whatever I was feeling that day. If I sat on the side of the table that felt right, my mom would be out of jail, and my dad would stay alive — or best of all, I would be free to break away from everyone. It made me feel assured and safe when I was nowhere near either. The problem is, I didn’t grow out of it. When I am stressed or feel like I am losing control, the numbers start, and my sanity goes.
I count license-plate numbers. I look at words, and I think of another word that starts with the same letter and ends with the same letter as that word. Then I do it backward. So mouse: mine, emblem. I do this all day. Then I feel better! Just kidding. No, I don’t.
I mean, I kind of do. But don’t. OK, it’s like when your lips are chapped, so you lick them. And for a moment the burning is relieved, but pretty quickly it comes back worse than before (another thing I learned in childhood that should be dropped as an adult). Just for a moment after I scramble letters or tap my head 10 times, I feel like things are in order and safe. We can all breathe because I counted the total number of lights on that truck stopped at a stoplight by twos, and it came out to an even number. Everything fits perfectly. Relax, everyone, I saved the day.
“But Hannah, haven’t you noticed that despite all your counting and pattern making, there’s still disaster and tragedy in this world? And your personal failures continue to know no bounds.” Yes, I have noticed, and what I can gather is that I’m not counting hard enough and not counting for the right reasons.
Some people clean a lot when they’re obsessive-compulsive. Man am I jealous of those people. My room is left a pigsty because like a mad scientist in a chaotic lab, I am busy tending to an eternal game of sudoku that nobody can win. My OCD is useless to anyone, anywhere, at any time.
It also doesn’t appear dramatic enough to garner any sympathy. There’s no Lifetime movie about it, and the two times when I’ve tried to explain it to people, I saw their eyes glaze over with boredom. It’s not something to feel sorry about, and it’s not really that interesting to explain over dinner. It’s just this annoying thing that sort of lives in my life, suspended in the air. Like a fly buzzing in my ear as I scream and swat at my own head, people say, “Calm down. Nothing is happening.” Because to them it isn’t, but to me a very big thing is happening.
It is through my odd behaviors that I see why humans don’t have actual magic powers, like tapping a table until they’re rich. I see why so much of our fate is decided by some kind of higher being instead. It makes sense to me, as out of control and scared as we may feel at times. It is worth it to not have the responsibility of the weather or death on our shoulders. Believe me — we can’t handle it.
The older I get, the more I realize I cannot control most things. Not when Sephora has a sale, not other people, not even myself sometimes. It’s scary but also such a relief, because if things were under my control, I would’ve counted us all into being mermaids when I was four.
