tired"When I was a kid, I always imagined I'd be normal by now." —Hannelore, Questionable Content.
Before I begin, I want to make it clear that this is not the first time I have talked about my OCD, and the way it impacts my life. I don't talk about it in depth all that often, because it's a daily thing for me. I'm not "normal" five days out of the week, and OCD on Mondays and Thursdays. I'm not cyclical. I am programmed in a way that doesn't quite fit the currently defined human median, and that's how I function all the time.
I started displaying signs of OCD when I was nine, although I didn't get formally diagnosed until I was nineteen. Because I'm not germaphobic (if anything, I'm virophillic) or a "cleaner," it was easy to write my insistence on following patterns and maintaining routines off as just one more aspect of me being a weird kid. And I was a weird kid, with or without the OCD. It's impossible for me to know who I would have been with a differently wired brain, but I like to think that I would have been a version of the self I am now. Just maybe one with a little less stuff, and a little less esoteric knowledge about bad B-grade horror movies.
My diagnosis was almost accidental. I was depressed; I went to see a doctor about my depression; one thing led to another; we arrived at a place that we both agreed matched up with the contents of my brain. (OCD is sometimes connected to depression. Hell, OCD sometimes causes depression, either because you can't keep up with your obsessions, or because your compulsions make you sad. I've had both these experiences. Neither is particularly fun.) I promptly told absolutely no one, because the OCD jokes were already common within my social circle, and I didn't want to deal. But I did start putting some basic coping strategies in place, and things got better. I didn't fly into a towering rage over people being late if we didn't set a start time. I learned to eat food without mashing it into an indistinguishable slurry. The beat went on.
As I've gotten older, my symptoms have matured with the rest of me, as have my coping strategies. I've finally reached the point where I can be less than two hours early for my flight, providing I have a printed boarding pass and priority boarding. I can travel with people who are more laid back than I am (although, to be fair, that's everyone). I can even go for dinner without having a pre-memorized menu (I don't get credit for this one; it turns out you can, with time, memorize a wide enough range of food combinations to be safe within a number of specific cuisines). And I mostly don't take it out on other people when things go wrong.
One in fifty Americans lives with OCD. I won't say "suffers from," because not all of us are suffering; I am not suffering. I am no more or less normal than anyone else. It's just that I start from a different position on the field. Some people with OCD do suffer, because it can be a crippling condition. It's the luck of the draw, the same as anything else.
The dominant idea of OCD is still Adrian Monk or Hannelore, or Emma from Glee. I've been in tears over her twice this season, because it breaks my heart a little when I see her struggling to control something she never asked for, never did anything to earn, and has to deal with all the same. Most people with OCD aren't these stereotypes. They're your friend who always has hand sanitizer, or your cousin who never leaves the house until seven minutes after the hour. They're the guy you went to college with who has a collection of lawn gnomes in his bathroom, and buys a new one every six months. They're your favorite football player. They're that composer you like.
They're me.
I made a comment on Twitter earlier today that I was an "odd duck," because I wanted to dance to a Ludo song at my wedding (no, one isn't planned, I just like to plan ahead). Celticora replied, "You're not an odd duck, you're a normal platypus." I think I'm going to roll with that. So the next time someone wants to be early, or can't leave the house without checking that the toaster is unplugged, or does something else you can't understand but that doesn't actually hurt you, remember, it's a big ecosystem. We have room for ducks and platypi.
Everybody loves a semi-aquatic egg-laying mammal of action, right?
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January 26 2012, 15:15:17 UTC 5 years ago
"or can't leave the house without checking that the toaster is unplugged". That's me. I've even rearranged my kitchen so that I can see both toaster & outlet as I leave the house. The year that my friend gave me a coffee pot with a thermal carafe instead of a heating plate for Christmas, and I realized I'd never feel compelled to make sure it was unplugged (off was not good enough) before I left the house ever again, I cried happy tears. Which really confused her, because it was "just a nice coffee pot"... :-)
January 26 2012, 17:25:34 UTC 5 years ago
January 26 2012, 15:47:31 UTC 5 years ago
And I agree with the commentor that it should be "Obsessive Compulsive Order" not "disorder". We do what we must to cope and to live. As long as it doesn't harm anyone, do it. Heck, who am I to judge others? I do weird stuff, too.
January 26 2012, 17:25:47 UTC 5 years ago
January 26 2012, 21:23:36 UTC 5 years ago
January 31 2012, 18:40:25 UTC 5 years ago
January 27 2012, 01:05:57 UTC 5 years ago
*hugs you muchly*
January 31 2012, 18:40:34 UTC 5 years ago
January 27 2012, 18:39:09 UTC 5 years ago
January 31 2012, 18:40:42 UTC 5 years ago
January 28 2012, 06:21:02 UTC 5 years ago
Well, okay, I've been knowingly surrounded by people with various stripes of mental variance for most of my life, including the friend in high school who explained exactly what schizophrenia felt like when she was off her meds. So it doesn't freak me out like it apparently does most of the population.
And the sad thing is that I'm a little reluctant to speak about my three-year-old's autism diagnosis, because most of the reactions I get start with "I'm sorry," or "that must be hard." Sorry? I've got a sweet little intelligent kid whose wiring is a little odd, and who I can pretty much guarantee wouldn't have been diagnosed thirty years ago—because his dad's childhood experiences are lining up pretty much across the board. It looks like my husband's autistic too. Big deal. He's the same extreme introvert I married. And awesome. So if my kid turns out like that, yay!
(Mind you, I'm glad he's been labeled, because our school district has special needs preschooling and I think that will be just what he needs. Sometimes the expert help is a good thing.)
January 28 2012, 18:46:02 UTC 5 years ago
January 31 2012, 18:41:21 UTC 5 years ago
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January 31 2012, 18:41:28 UTC 5 years ago
February 12 2012, 13:55:53 UTC 5 years ago
But the only place where it really gets in the way is writing. I cannot sit down and come up with new ideas and type at the computer. I get distracted, so it takes me forever to finish things. That is the only part of it I would really change.
And I'm kind of obsessive about things too. I sort M&Ms, program classes on my phone's calendar months in advance, wear my clothes in a specific order, can't stand seeing dirty dishes/clothes lying about, have to have certain things arranged 'just so,' even if the rest of the room is a mess, have to know where I'm going and what I'm doing days in advance of actually doing it, and double/triple/quadruple check to make sure I've actually taken the key out of the ignition when I park my car. (Though the last was prompted by the time I left the keys in my dad's car and it stayed on all through my history class . . . but that's another story.)
We're all weird. The best we can do is be happy that way.
To quote my icon, which is from one of my favorite bands, Owl City
"Reality is a lovely place, but I wouldn't wanna live there."
February 15 2012, 18:47:08 UTC 5 years ago
Agreed.
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