I Just Want to be Normal

I’m very excited about today’s post because it is written by my brother. My brother shared with me that he had Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) several years after my son, Blake, was diagnosed and treated for it. He’s been incredibly private about it. Now, for the first time ever, he’s putting into writing what OCD is like for him. This is my brother being brave – and I’m ever so proud…

Me and OCD – Part I

If you asked someone what they know about OCD, my guess is they’d either ask you to explain what the acronym means or they’d tell you about the funny little man who stands in front of his house continually checking to see if his door is locked.  When I was a kid no one really knew what OCD was and now-a-days a lot of folks use it as a form of speech, “Oh it’s just my OCD kicking in.”  But what’s it really like living with OCD?  Frustrating!

I’ve never been formally diagnosed with OCD by a mental health professional, but it sure feels like I have it.  I didn’t seem to have it really bad as a kid.  I can remember some tendencies, but it really started to kick in when I was in my 30’s.  However; I can remember one incident when I was younger that has stuck with me.

I didn’t think much of it and just chuckled along with him cause I really didn’t understand what I was doing.

My earliest memories of OCD are in the form of hand washing.  My parents had a boat and everything is dirty and salty on a boat that sails in the ocean.  While sailing along one time I had the urge to keep going below deck and wash my hands.  Not with soap, but just rinsing.  I’d rinse, run back up the ladder, run back down, rinse, etc.  I remember my grandfather watching me and getting a chuckle out of the repetitive nature of what I was doing.  He was laughing because the repetitive nonsense of it. It is strange and confusing to folks, and one result of it all is a bit of uneasy comedy for the viewers.  He wasn’t laughing cause he was a jerk, he was laughing because it made no sense.  If you’ve ever done any ocean sailing you understand.  I was covered head to toe in salt, dirt, and grime, but kept thinking I’d make myself “clean” by using water on my hands.  I didn’t think much of it and just chuckled along with him cause I really didn’t understand what I was doing.

For some reason in my 30’s my brain chemistry must have changed because OCD started becoming a major pain in my butt.  It started with little things, like making sure my parking brake was down before I went driving and making sure it was up before I’d leave the car.  Then it became the door locks.  The locks on my car started to have trouble and I could no longer rely on them locking when I pressed the remote.  So I started a ritual. Ah yes, the ritual!  Check the driver’s door, behind driver, passenger, behind passenger.  One lift of the handle became two, two became four and so on.  Next thing you know I’m pulling on those darn door handles like there’s no tomorrow!  My wife had to keep telling me that I was going to break the handles!

Let’s talk about the ritual.  Everyone has rituals.  Most folks without OCD would have pulled on the door handle once, noted it’s locked and go about their day.  Checking that door was their ritual and they satiated the “is the door locked” anxiety by checking once.  But here’s the OCD rub.  Once just doesn’t cut it anymore.  I want to be sure so I check again, again, again, again and the problem is once I get into the repetitive ritual, I actually start getting MORE anxiety so I check again and again and again.  Sensing the OCD catch-22 here?

One lift of the handle became two, two became four and so on.

And OCD doesn’t just affect you, it affects everyone around you especially your loved ones.  I don’t think I’m a very selfish person, but OCD is an extremely selfish illness.  Because I’m stuck doing rituals, I’m not doing what I need to be doing, so everything around you starts to suffer.  Plus I started dragging my wife into the OCD nightmare.  Since I couldn’t satiate my anxiety by checking the locks myself, I started sending my her to check!  Thankfully she stopped that ritual real quick!   She told me she’d wait for me, but *I* needed to go check and she wouldn’t.  At first I was angry that she wouldn’t enable me, but I soon came to realize that it helped me immensely!

So many rituals, so little time….  So how do I cope?  Discussing OCD with my doctor and medication has helped me a bit, but also thinking about the fallacy of the OCD ritual.  Let’s take the hand washing one.  Yep, I still suffer from that one too, but I try and reason with myself now.  My hand feels dirty, but it’s been sitting on my arm.  I tell myself that if my hand was dirty, my arm would be dirty now too!  Normal folks would think that I’d now think everything was dirty and I’d have to take a shower.  Not for me!  The craziness of my OCD doesn’t register the arm as dirty, just the hand.  So I look down at my arm, no dirt and it doesn’t feel dirty.  So maybe my hand isn’t dirty either….

How about the locks?  Instead of getting sucked into the OCD ritual repeat, I try and make the look or the handle pull mean something.  I try to not just do the ritual to do the ritual, but to REALLY concentrate and tell myself, “Yes the door is locked.”.

It hasn’t been easy and every day is a struggle, but I don’t want to be that selfish funny little man that is stuck at his door all day long.  I just want to be normal.

Don’t Other People Do That?

I haven’t written much lately about Blake’s OCD. Though it’s been in a “waxing” period for some time now, there are still “rules” Blake follows all day every day. This was a moment we had last week.

Our cat presents a challenge for OCD’s contamination rules

Blake is helping me make my bed and we are chatting as we work. The only problem is, our cat isn’t cooperating. He insists on walking all over the blankets and sheets, making it nearly impossible to move or straighten anything without difficulty.

Impatient with our furry companion, Blake picks up a pillow and starts swatting at the cat. He’s not actually hitting him, just trying to encourage him to move off the bed. He swats repeatedly, but it’s a fruitless maneuver. The cat only moves a few feet so that Blake has to move to another part of the king size bed to reach him.

I watch this scene with interest. It’s a pretty ineffective technique for moving a cat who is determined to stay put, yet Blake continues to try to use it.

“How about if you actually give him a little nudge with your hand, honey? Or maybe pick him up and put him on the floor?” I finally ask.

“Then I’d have to go wash my hands and I’m trying to wash my hands less,” he answers.

I don’t say anything. My silence obviously speaks to Blake who asks me, “That’s not unusual, is it? People wash their hands when they touch their pets, right? Right?”

“Um…that’s not what most people do. I mean, most people don’t run to wash their hands immediately after they touch their pets.”

“They don’t?”

“No. They don’t.”

“Ew. I don’t think that would be very uncomfortable.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Do you think I’m wrong?”

“Blake, you asked if other people wash their hands when they touch their pets. I answered you that most people don’t.”

“But am I wrong?” he asks.

“Only you can decide that, honey.”

“I don’t like to feel uncomfortable,” he answers.

“I know,” I say kindly. “Maybe, if you wanted to, you could expand the limits of what makes you uncomfortable by just waiting a tiny bit longer to wash after you touch our pets.”

“Thank you, mom,” he says.

That’s my signal that the message is received and he’s done with the conversation. Yet, this is the first time I can ever recall that Blake is questioning his behavior. He’s always just asserted that he is the way he is and that he thinks he is right. Today he is questioning whether his rules about what’s contaminated are in keeping with what others do. I don’t know that it means anything…but maybe it does.

These Spring Evenings

Spring has finally arrived in our area. The plants are blooming and blossoming. The days are warmer and the nights are still cool. The hubby recently completed a project of changing over our landscaping to a more water efficient and drought tolerant one. Consequently, our backyard is a joy to be in right now. Every evening that I get home later than the hubby, I find him sitting in a cozy chair on the back patio just enjoying. Frequently he is flanked by a dog on either side, and both of these appear equally as content as their owner.

Along with spending more time on the patio, the hubby has suggested we move several of our evening meals in the last couple of weeks outdoors. I’ve obliged him, and therein lies the issue for Blake. I’ve shared before that Blake’s Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) has played a back seat role to his depression of late, but it is at times like this when it shows itself more.

“Are we eating outside again?” he asks.

“We are.”

“I’m guessing you’d like me to join you…”

“We’d love you to join us.”

I can feel the hesitation, the thinking, the rationalizing, the many things that must be going through his head. When we first realized Blake had OCD it showed itself in fear of contamination. Although it has had many incarnations, his OCD has never quite abandoned attacking him on the issue of things being contaminated. Our patio table is contaminated (it sits outdoors all the time). The chairs are contaminated (ditto). There are bugs out there (they might land on you or, heaven forbid, your food). I think even the outside air feels a little contaminated, but I’m not quite certain about that. It’s no wonder Blake is hesitating.

On one particular night, we have relatives over. We barbecue. I prepare the meal. The hubby prepares the table outside. Blake, as he has for several years now, prepares his own meal. I head outside with my full dinner plate and notice Blake at the indoor dinner table. He’s putting together his plate. One by one, my hubby and our guests all settle in for our meal. I’m guessing Blake will not be there, but I’ve guessed wrong.

Moments later, Blake has a full plate and he carves out space for himself. The rest of us reposition ourselves. He sets his plate down and leaves. He comes back with a can of soda in hand. I know what this is. Soda for Blake is liquid courage; it’s motivation and reward for doing something that is difficult. He joins us at the table. He eats his food. He actually participates in the conversation. At some point everyone except Blake and I have left the table for seconds or for dessert.

“I’m so glad you joined us,” I note. “How are you doing?”

“I’m glad to be here,” he says, and then he answers, “I’m uncomfortable. I’m definitely uncomfortable.”

I ponder this for just a second or two.

“Uncomfortable is good,” I respond – and it is.