A Meeting In The Closet

IMG_1919[1]Like just about everyone else I’ve come across today, my internal clock is a little messed up from the time change we had over the weekend.  That extra hour of sleep on Sunday was terrific, but the darkness that sets in around 5 pm has me feeling eerie and off kilter.  My hubby is feeling the same.  Top that off with my working late tonight and we were scrambling to eat dinner at our regular time.  When dinner was finished, we did a quick clean up and we both couldn’t wait to get upstairs and to change out of our work clothes from the day.

We share one closet – a walk-in with two entry doors.  We each entered from our side and met in the middle.  It was a funny sort of encounter.  We rarely change from work at the same time, but since he put the finishing touches on dinner and I made it in the door just as dinner was getting on the table, here we now stood.  It was the first moment we’d had alone all day.

“Blake has been so argumentative tonight,” my husband started.  All alone in the closet after a long day, and this is what we are talking about.  Hubby doesn’t usually get to deal with the evening routine.  It is generally mine.  I make the meal; I coordinate the homework schedule; I deal with the problems of the day. And I watch Blake’s nightly OCD rituals.  I’ve gotten so good at trying not to pay attention to them that I’m almost not noticing them.  But to hubby, it was an eye opener.

“First, he argued about everything I asked him to do,” he told me.  “So I was rattled already frustrated about that and then he starts with the rituals.”

“Like what?” I ask.

“Well, he re-sets his place at the table.  He goes through the plates until he chooses a different one.  How does he decide which one to pick?”

“I have no idea,” I confess.  “I see him do it almost every night.  I don’t ask about it.”

“Then, he changes his placemat…”

“Yup.  I see him do that too,” I note.

“And the napkins.  He chooses a special napkin for himself – not the one on the end.”

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed that one.”  I’m mentally searching through my memory.  Nope.  How did I miss that one?  “I did notice that he got up several times during dinner say a prayer, though.”

“Oh, yes. I saw that too.   Do you think it’s the time change?” he asks me.

“Hmmm.  I don’t know.  I think he does most of that stuff most nights, but I let it go.”

My husband looks at me with a look that says, “Well, I guess we are in it for the long haul on this one.  I wonder where it is going to go to.

We are in a holding pattern.  Our hands are somewhat tied.  We’ve agreed that we will aren’t pointing out Blake’s OCD to him.  He had insisted that he could handle it on his own.  But now, my husband and I wonder if Blake even recognizes his own OCD symptoms.  We wonder how long it can go on and how far he will let it go until he finally tires of it and decides to get better.

“I love you, you wonderful guy,” I tell him with a hug.  He hugs me back warmly then chases the cat out of his side of the closet as he exits.  I exit out my side.  We pass Blake in the hallway, who is laughing at a You Tube video on the computer screen. Hubby stops to watch and I go downstairs to write.  We are done with OCD for the night.  🙂

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4 thoughts on “A Meeting In The Closet

  1. Hi, read with much interest your blog on living with a son who has OCD. We as a family also live with the ever changing condition of rituals of OCD. I can fully understand the day to day insanity and frustration and the realisation a long time ago that you can and never will make logic of it. Our son’s OCD has always moved in cycles, something as a mother I realised from a very early age. His rituals and checking go a full circle, which is a blessing as it gives us a period when we can gather our strength for the next onslaught.

    1. Janis, Thank you so much for reading and for commenting. As you know, I’m sure, it always helps to know that there are kindred souls out there. We are grateful, as a family, for those small moments when we can gather our own strength, as well. Warm regards.

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