Don't Get Too Excited

by Jen Epstein

There is only one thing in this world over which I don’t allow myself to obsess: how I developed Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

I don’t blame my parents for my OCD or any of my other “issues.” My mom is probably reading this right now and bristling over the accusation, so I want to make sure that she hears me. In fact, if anything, I thank them for it. I would not be the wise, strong, funny, quirky, empathic human being I am today if not for the many experiences in my life that have shaped and challenged me to maintain my resilience.

At eight, I became particularly fixated on electric fences. Even though we lived miles from one, every time I spotted a sign that said “DANGER HIGH VOLTAGE!” out the window of the car, I was petrified. I was convinced that I would soon meet my untimely fate by electric shock. There was no explanation for why I became consumed with the scenario, but with OCD, there never really is a specific, rational explanation.

This was when a new irrational fear cropped up. I became obsessed with an insignificant part of the human anatomy. Namely, my uvula, the little piece of lobe that hangs at the back of your throat. I was fascinated by what exactly its function was, but troubled that it appeared loose when I opened my mouth and watched it dangling and jiggling in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. I became convinced that this inconsequential orifice would detach and fall out when I least expected it. Even worse, I might swallow it. If my throat became dry and too much saliva built up, that thing might snap and break off like a twig. For months this was all I talked about. My father consulted a number of professionals with backgrounds in medicine, science, and, of course, psychotherapy to convince me I had nothing to be concerned about.

More importantly, the types of compulsions and fears to which I was prone always seemed to focus on the body. This explains my first truly debilitating problem from OCD: a paralyzing fear of contamination. I was afraid that my body would become contaminated through contact with another person and terrified that I was the tainted one who would contaminate someone else.

I spent my mornings participating in spirited debates analyzing the themes and symbolism of Kafka and Dante’s Inferno. In the afternoons, I languished from the effects of isolation and the repetition of equations being beaten into my brain.

I tapped the burners on the kitchen stove three, four, five, as many at eight consecutive times to convince myself they were shut off. While I was hunched over the burner, tapping, patting, and stroking the gas range for signs of imaginary heat stoking what I believed would result in a five-alarm fire, I opened and shut the refrigerator and freezer door, feeling around the

For someone who struggles with OCD, however, when you add a new layer of anxiety onto what’s already a mountainous pile, the results are catastrophic. For me, it meant spooning with everyday household appliances. Massaging knobs, buttons, door handles, utility drawers. Rubbing and pinching the accordion ridges along the refrigerator door, surveying for breadcrumbs and vegetable peelings invisible to the naked eye, groping and tugging on the handle of the apartment front door. It meant walking to the bottom of the building stairwell, pausing for a few beats, then pacing and twirling while examining the lobby carpet fibers for dirt and dust particles. All of this provided temporary relief from accepting and processing the string of failures I had arrived at the conclusion were solely my fault and responsibility.

I recited a list of reasons to Roxy as to why I would cancel the trip. To me, all the reasons seemed reasonable. This, of course, is one of the prime characterizations of OCD: that irrational thoughts always seem rational. And rational ideas can come across as irrational. This is especially true during prolonged periods of heightened stress and anxiety.

In some way, being alone in a dressing room resembles writing. There’s nothing between you and yourself but naked, exposed skin. In either instance, you stand alone, unarmed, ill-equipped to face your life’s traumas. In both, people from your past and present taunt you as you try to articulate the words to express your fear, anger, or disdain.

Trying to look attractive is a nuisance and annoyance. It makes me want to cry, scream, and crawl up in the fetal position. I’d rather grow the hair on my legs long enough for birds to be able to roost in it than shave down to the roots and nick myself using an apparatus that feels like a cheese grater against my bare skin.

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I was tired of being late to work every day because the refrigerator, kitchen cabinets, and a stove that wasn’t even in service had to be checked, rechecked, and then checked again to ensure that every knob and handle had been securely shut and turned off. That ritual took ten minutes to complete.

Selecting the temperature cycle on the washing machine leaves me equally anxiety ridden as shredding documents. However, my fear of contamination casts the deciding vote, and it is almost always to launder my clothing and bedding, even those made of the most delicate fabrics, on the highest temperature.

Even though I no longer wear the Converse All Stars featured in my wardrobe during middle school, or the Puma blue suede sneakers that got ruined during initiation, whatever pair of shoes I have on will always be like life: scuffed up, torn, with the soles peeling off. No matter what those shoes go through, or how hard they work, they will always have another story to tell.