Blake sits in his chair looking intently at the therapist. He’s just begun coming with us to sessions and he’s questioning the therapist’s approach (because, well, Blake knows better than the therapist – or mom and dad).
“I don’t understand why my parents are rubbing a tissue on the dogs and putting it on my bedroom floor if I don’t show up for dinner,” he says. “If they wanted me to come to dinner, they just could have told me.”
Well, actually, we did tell him we wanted him to come to dinner. He just wasn’t making it on time most nights.
“But why the tissue?” he wonders.
“Well…” the therapist starts. “Your parents have noticed that there are some behaviors you have that are related to OCD. And they are concerned about them.”
“What?!” His head swivels in our direction. “You’re concerned about them?! Why didn’t you ever just tell me?! Why did you ever let me leave treatment, then?! Frankly, I see nothing wrong with what I do. Dogs are not cleanly and it’s disgusting to have anything from them in my room!”
Well, actually, we did tell him we were concerned about his behaviors and that we encouraged him to be in treatment, but he refused.
As the conversation heightens, the hubby starts to get antsy. He steps into the process.
“Look, I don’t think the primary issue is your OCD right now, Blake. I think your sleep is a huge issue, and your functioning on a day-to-day basis.”
At one point Blake leaves the room in frustration and our therapist looks at the hubby and I.
“Please don’t say it’s not about OCD,” he asks us, “because I’m not so sure it’s not. Blake has a lot of OCD behaviors that he thinks are normal. I don’t want to normalize those and have him think they aren’t a problem.”
When we leave the room, I begin wondering about what our therapist said. Other professionals have pointed to Blake’s depression in recent years, not so much to the OCD. What is he seeing? So, I observe, and I begin to notice what I’ve stopped seeing in the past four years:
- Walk into bathroom, wash. Walk out. Walk back in. Wash again.
- Open car back door. Seat is too dirty. Sit up front.
- “Mom? What is that on the floor?”
- “Mom? What is that in the box?”
- “Mom? Is that color normal?”
- Open car back door. Seat still too dirty. Sit up front.
- Say prayer. Pace. Say prayer again.
- Carry squirming cat downstairs, while holding said squirming cat as far as arms will extend away from you.
- Open car back door. Seat still too dirty. Get a towel and clean seat before sitting.
Blake’s OCD is still very much there. It’s just been quieter. And he’s accepted it as normal (at least he seems to have). How is it connected to his deep, deep depression? That will be an answer we will have to watch unfold.