I’ll admit there are moments when I feel a little pity for myself because of my obsessive compulsive disorder. Why couldn’t I have something less intrusive and more easily manageable, like, for instance, dealing with excessive ear wax or a hammertoe? Yet, as I think about the process of removing that ear wax, I find myself appreciating my OCD a bit more. After all, it’s not the worst situation to be in. I can still enjoy a relatively normal life—and I certainly don’t have to wear orthotics!
As I write this, I’m lounging by the hotel pool on the first day of my five-day getaway. The place is gorgeous—an expansive infinity pool with fountains dancing around it. A staff member is serving refreshing water infused with fresh strawberries, and warm towels are at my disposal. I’m lost in a captivating book while tackling a tricky word puzzle. It feels like bliss.
However, my moment of tranquility is disrupted by a child’s incessant shouting: “Help! Mom, Dad, look! Help! Look at me! Help!” Clearly, this little one hasn’t heard the story of The Boy Who Cried Wolf. I shoot him a disapproving glare, but then I spot it: the mother of all boogers he’s proudly pulling from his nose. He holds it aloft as if it’s a trophy, and I find myself silently wishing he would just eat it. No luck, though—he flicks it right into the water. The very water my husband is calling me to join him in. I’m going to have to wade through his snot to get to him.
Thinking quickly, I decide to enter the pool from the other side to avoid whatever childhood germs the little screamer might be harboring. I do a frantic little dance around the hot deck, swim to my husband from behind, and surprise him.
“Why didn’t you just come in at the stairs?” he asks, puzzled.
“Oh, I wanted to be stealthy,” I reply.
“Well, next time, maybe skip the hot coal dance? Everyone was staring,” he chuckles.
He gathers me in his arms, and for a moment, I’m in bliss—I can’t remember the last time we enjoyed a moment alone in a pool. But then I can’t help but scan the water’s surface for The Booger. Could it have drifted all the way over here? Is there a current in this pool?
“What did you say?” my husband asks.
“Nothing,” I respond, “just distracted.”
“By the baby?” he inquires.
No, I think, by my overwhelming desire for a Hazmat suit.
“What baby?” I ask, searching for a distraction from the giant snot blob I envision floating towards me.
“Over there,” he points. “On the steps.”
I notice the toddler with a diaper sagging dangerously low, and I instinctively lift my head higher onto my husband’s shoulder. I clench my Kegel muscles, bracing for what I’m sure is an imminent E. Coli attack, and mentally plot my escape from this germ-infested oasis.
“Can we get out?” I plead.
“Already? It’s so nice,” he says, surprised.
“I know, but I’m burning! I should get out of the sun.” (And away from this Petri dish of a pool.)
Reluctantly, he lets me go. After twenty-five years together, he understands that reasoning with my OCD is futile. My brain is wired to obsess over germs and health, and while therapy and medication have helped to some extent, the thought of swimming in a pool contaminated with boogers and feces is too much for me. No amount of hand sanitizer can fix this. I need a nuclear shower.
I splash towards the stairs, eager to escape the water. Once out, I bolt to my room, turn on the hottest shower I can tolerate, and shampoo my hair twice. After washing my swimsuit with Woolite and hanging it on the balcony to dry, weariness hits me hard. I need a nap.
Before settling in, I strip the bed of its comforter and decorative pillows—who knows the last time those were cleaned? I wish I had one of those Luminol lights like they use on crime shows to check for stains! Maybe I can find one on Amazon? As I sit on the bed with my computer, I notice a slight curling of my second and third toes.
In moments like these, I’m reminded how OCD can overshadow even the most beautiful experiences, making it hard to relax and enjoy life fully.
Summary
Living with OCD can complicate even the simplest pleasures, such as enjoying a vacation. The struggle between trying to relax and battling intrusive thoughts about cleanliness and germs can overshadow moments of joy. Finding ways to cope with these challenges is essential for a fulfilling life.
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