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megatronixEven after I was told I had OCD, I didn't exactly understand what it meant. It's a complicated disorder, plus I was only 7 years old. I just knew I was the weird kid who took five times as long to complete worksheets, mostly due to re-reading the instructions to make sure I did everything just right. Even reading and re-reading instructions and every question on the worksheets, I often made mistakes, and my teacher that year used to write large red marks across incorrect answers. That one huge red F inside its glaring red circle home on top of my work sent me sobbing into the arms of my mom. I wanted so much to be perfect, do everything The Right Way. As if there was only one right way.
The saddest part for me now (and then) was my germ phobia that took hold of my brain and held it prisoner. There are things that of course are actually germy or dirty, and then there were things that just seemed disgusting, seemed wrong somehow. People, objects. It felt like a game of "cooties" gone horribly out of control. After coming into contact with something "contaminated," I felt this tension build and build, my muscles literally becoming so tense and rigid I felt like I couldn't move them, so strong was the fear of touching something else.
Until I washed my hands.
Once the soap and water washed over my hands, relief washed over me. It was ok now. Until it wasn't. Wash, rinse, repeat. Figuratively, and quite literally.
*
My younger brother had this friend down the street. The only kid in our neighborhood his age. Ryan.
Ryan was a weird kid, awkward way of talking, didn't like to wash his hands even when they had dirt on them from playing outside. Small bits of spittle left his mouth as he spoke at times. And he was rude, as well - at times, anyway. He came over a lot, and Garth went to his house a lot. Sometimes Garth came home in tears because Ryan wouldn't play nicely, or had been too rough physically and Garth had gotten hurt.
I did not like Ryan.
Corroded. That was the word they used when I was in 4th grade, a silly game to troll each other, basically. "Ew Kyle, you're corroded, go take a shower!" The other kids were just messing around. My brain latched onto this strongly, as a fundamental truth of life, and I coped with copious amounts of water and soap. I knew it was weird, silly, ridiculous. But I couldn't stop - washing hands made the feeling go away, so I just needed to do that more, so I could feel better, right?
One day, I thought of Ryan as "corroded," and it was all over. It was as if a plague had befallen most of the things I knew and loved in life. If Garth went over to Ryan's, then in my mind, he came back "corroded." If Ryan came over to our home, in Garth's and my shared bedroom to play, I swore Garth to allegiance with me: My little brother, who so looked up to me, the kindest, gentlest person I know, would swear that Ryan wouldn't touch any of my things. And whatever he did touch, Garth would tell me, so I could wash it once Ryan left.
But I knew Ryan had at least touched the door handle, so I would ask Garth to get the door instead of me, and then tell him to go wash HIS hands. He didn't want to, but I badgered him into it. I told Garth I couldn't touch any of his things. And then it turned into I couldn't touch him either. No more hugs, no playing closely together. Because if I did, I'd have to wash my hands too many times. I wasn't strong enough to keep up with all of that, to keep track, to wash that often. I was exhausted.
He wanted to tell Mom. NO, I argued. Adamantly. He was not to tell anyone. And he didn't. My poor baby brother, keeping that for me. It was too heavy for either of us to bear, and for better or worse, we bore it together. His own OCD tendencies popped up, too. He became depressed. We bickered, and everyone assumed it was normal sibling stuff. Not a mental disorder that he and I kept secret.
It wasn't actually completely a secret - people were aware that it had been a problem in second grade. Like I said, I had a diagnosis at that time, a few sessions of therapy. And my symptoms and hand washing had decreased for a time. And therapy stopped. And for really all of third grade, I hadn't had many problems with it at all. But when OCD reared its ugly head again the following year, with the surfacing of this "corroded" Cooties-game, and who knows what being off balance inside my brain, I just decided I should keep all this embarrassing stuff a secret. After all, I knew it was all ridiculous and unnecessary - that's one of the most annoying parts about OCD, you KNOW it's stupid while it's happening, and yet, the relief is so wholly emcompassing when you just DO the compulsion you have, that it's like fine, I'll give in just this once. But then the feeling comes back again, and again... So you give in again, and again...
And I was very good at hiding. So I hid it, and Garth hid it, and he was sworn to secrecy by me.
*
The summer after fourth grade, we took a road trip in our Dodge Caravan minivan. The whole family: Dad driving, Mom riding front passenger, big brothers Wyatt and Derek in the back seat, Garth and me in the middle row. I didn't want to sit next to Garth, but Derek and Wyatt wanted to sit together, and it made sense. After all, they were closer in age, and then there was a 5 year age gap, then me, then Garth, so we were like pairs, nearly always. Wyatt and Derek, and, Garth and Meghan. Just the way it was.
So I sat next to him, and I told him to be VERY CAREFUL not to touch me. "It's not that I don't love you, I do love you, but just please be careful," I begged in a whisper.
"I know, ok," he said, in a small voice with a small nod to match.
A few hours into the trip, something happened. I reached for something, and my sleeve touched his arm. My heart practically jumped into my throat. My eyes widened. Garth had felt it too. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispered quickly, over and over.
"No, it was me..." I sighed.
"What's going on?" my mom said, in that commanding way she had, the one that we usually reacted to like we were in huge trouble (which is silly, because we rarely ever were, and even when we were, "huge trouble" in our home usually just meant being scolded or lectured, but we were kids who wanted to do things The Right Way, after all, so any perceived breaking of rules was practically earth shattering to us).
"Nothing, Mom," I said quickly.
My brother just looked at me, waiting. What did I need him to do?
I sighed and looked back, at a loss. I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. What should I do? If I asked to wash my sleeve and arm (because of course my sleeve had already wiggled and touched my arm in the course of sitting back in my seat), then my parents would know. My whole family would KNOW. I'd have to admit how bad everything had gotten.
I couldn't do it.
I just couldn't. My heart pounded. What now?
Tentatively, I sighed and thought, "Maybe... Maybe? Maybe it would be ok?" I sat back in my seat and closed my eyes and breathed.
I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and leaned closer to Garth, and I... reached out, across the division in the seat cushion, a division between seats, but also between siblings. I reached out and touched his arm.
Now his eyes looked huge and panicked. His expression turned questioning.
"I think maybe ... it's ok?" I said quietly.
"What? Really? Are you sure?"
"I... think... Yeah, I think it's ok," I said.
He sighed, and smiled, his face more at ease than I had remembered seeing it in far too long. I reached down and touched his hand and squeezed it. He squeezed back. And from that point forward, I was ok with him. I was so much better. The whole "corroded" thing was over.
I don't get it, really, even today, but I'm grateful for it! Getting shocked into such a level of anxiety in such a small space, where I couldn't get away, couldn't fly when they fight or flight kicked in, the fear of embarrassment being so much greater than the fear of germs? It somehow cured that one aspect of this bizarre disorder. That one compulsion. But hell, I took it, and ran with it, because it's not always the case that OCD can grant an ounce of grace.
But this day, it did, and I am so grateful. My brother and I both got our friendship back. And a seed was planted: OCD is not forever. OCD can improve. I can get better. Things can always get better.
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therealljidol
The saddest part for me now (and then) was my germ phobia that took hold of my brain and held it prisoner. There are things that of course are actually germy or dirty, and then there were things that just seemed disgusting, seemed wrong somehow. People, objects. It felt like a game of "cooties" gone horribly out of control. After coming into contact with something "contaminated," I felt this tension build and build, my muscles literally becoming so tense and rigid I felt like I couldn't move them, so strong was the fear of touching something else.
Until I washed my hands.
Once the soap and water washed over my hands, relief washed over me. It was ok now. Until it wasn't. Wash, rinse, repeat. Figuratively, and quite literally.
*
My younger brother had this friend down the street. The only kid in our neighborhood his age. Ryan.
Ryan was a weird kid, awkward way of talking, didn't like to wash his hands even when they had dirt on them from playing outside. Small bits of spittle left his mouth as he spoke at times. And he was rude, as well - at times, anyway. He came over a lot, and Garth went to his house a lot. Sometimes Garth came home in tears because Ryan wouldn't play nicely, or had been too rough physically and Garth had gotten hurt.
I did not like Ryan.
Corroded. That was the word they used when I was in 4th grade, a silly game to troll each other, basically. "Ew Kyle, you're corroded, go take a shower!" The other kids were just messing around. My brain latched onto this strongly, as a fundamental truth of life, and I coped with copious amounts of water and soap. I knew it was weird, silly, ridiculous. But I couldn't stop - washing hands made the feeling go away, so I just needed to do that more, so I could feel better, right?
One day, I thought of Ryan as "corroded," and it was all over. It was as if a plague had befallen most of the things I knew and loved in life. If Garth went over to Ryan's, then in my mind, he came back "corroded." If Ryan came over to our home, in Garth's and my shared bedroom to play, I swore Garth to allegiance with me: My little brother, who so looked up to me, the kindest, gentlest person I know, would swear that Ryan wouldn't touch any of my things. And whatever he did touch, Garth would tell me, so I could wash it once Ryan left.
But I knew Ryan had at least touched the door handle, so I would ask Garth to get the door instead of me, and then tell him to go wash HIS hands. He didn't want to, but I badgered him into it. I told Garth I couldn't touch any of his things. And then it turned into I couldn't touch him either. No more hugs, no playing closely together. Because if I did, I'd have to wash my hands too many times. I wasn't strong enough to keep up with all of that, to keep track, to wash that often. I was exhausted.
He wanted to tell Mom. NO, I argued. Adamantly. He was not to tell anyone. And he didn't. My poor baby brother, keeping that for me. It was too heavy for either of us to bear, and for better or worse, we bore it together. His own OCD tendencies popped up, too. He became depressed. We bickered, and everyone assumed it was normal sibling stuff. Not a mental disorder that he and I kept secret.
It wasn't actually completely a secret - people were aware that it had been a problem in second grade. Like I said, I had a diagnosis at that time, a few sessions of therapy. And my symptoms and hand washing had decreased for a time. And therapy stopped. And for really all of third grade, I hadn't had many problems with it at all. But when OCD reared its ugly head again the following year, with the surfacing of this "corroded" Cooties-game, and who knows what being off balance inside my brain, I just decided I should keep all this embarrassing stuff a secret. After all, I knew it was all ridiculous and unnecessary - that's one of the most annoying parts about OCD, you KNOW it's stupid while it's happening, and yet, the relief is so wholly emcompassing when you just DO the compulsion you have, that it's like fine, I'll give in just this once. But then the feeling comes back again, and again... So you give in again, and again...
And I was very good at hiding. So I hid it, and Garth hid it, and he was sworn to secrecy by me.
*
The summer after fourth grade, we took a road trip in our Dodge Caravan minivan. The whole family: Dad driving, Mom riding front passenger, big brothers Wyatt and Derek in the back seat, Garth and me in the middle row. I didn't want to sit next to Garth, but Derek and Wyatt wanted to sit together, and it made sense. After all, they were closer in age, and then there was a 5 year age gap, then me, then Garth, so we were like pairs, nearly always. Wyatt and Derek, and, Garth and Meghan. Just the way it was.
So I sat next to him, and I told him to be VERY CAREFUL not to touch me. "It's not that I don't love you, I do love you, but just please be careful," I begged in a whisper.
"I know, ok," he said, in a small voice with a small nod to match.
A few hours into the trip, something happened. I reached for something, and my sleeve touched his arm. My heart practically jumped into my throat. My eyes widened. Garth had felt it too. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispered quickly, over and over.
"No, it was me..." I sighed.
"What's going on?" my mom said, in that commanding way she had, the one that we usually reacted to like we were in huge trouble (which is silly, because we rarely ever were, and even when we were, "huge trouble" in our home usually just meant being scolded or lectured, but we were kids who wanted to do things The Right Way, after all, so any perceived breaking of rules was practically earth shattering to us).
"Nothing, Mom," I said quickly.
My brother just looked at me, waiting. What did I need him to do?
I sighed and looked back, at a loss. I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. What should I do? If I asked to wash my sleeve and arm (because of course my sleeve had already wiggled and touched my arm in the course of sitting back in my seat), then my parents would know. My whole family would KNOW. I'd have to admit how bad everything had gotten.
I couldn't do it.
I just couldn't. My heart pounded. What now?
Tentatively, I sighed and thought, "Maybe... Maybe? Maybe it would be ok?" I sat back in my seat and closed my eyes and breathed.
I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and leaned closer to Garth, and I... reached out, across the division in the seat cushion, a division between seats, but also between siblings. I reached out and touched his arm.
Now his eyes looked huge and panicked. His expression turned questioning.
"I think maybe ... it's ok?" I said quietly.
"What? Really? Are you sure?"
"I... think... Yeah, I think it's ok," I said.
He sighed, and smiled, his face more at ease than I had remembered seeing it in far too long. I reached down and touched his hand and squeezed it. He squeezed back. And from that point forward, I was ok with him. I was so much better. The whole "corroded" thing was over.
I don't get it, really, even today, but I'm grateful for it! Getting shocked into such a level of anxiety in such a small space, where I couldn't get away, couldn't fly when they fight or flight kicked in, the fear of embarrassment being so much greater than the fear of germs? It somehow cured that one aspect of this bizarre disorder. That one compulsion. But hell, I took it, and ran with it, because it's not always the case that OCD can grant an ounce of grace.
But this day, it did, and I am so grateful. My brother and I both got our friendship back. And a seed was planted: OCD is not forever. OCD can improve. I can get better. Things can always get better.
This has been an entry for
therealljidol