Lyric Essay

As Much as I Want to Wish Away Living With OCD, I Can’t

And, we can’t wish away a global pandemic either

I’m putting away dishes when I glance down at my winter-dry hands and see a little crack on my skin, a tiny bit of pinkish-red blood between the very bottom of the back of my thumb and the beginning of my arm. It’s not going anywhere. Just staying in that one little spot, taunting me.

My brain starts to chide, Get a band-aid. Wash your hands. Crawl back into bed. Stop what you’re doing. You’re dangerous.

I chide back, I’m not dangerous. I don’t have any blood-borne disease. I’m putting away the dishes, and I don’t use this part of my hand to do so. My family isn’t scared of me. Keep putting the dishes away.

Imagine this soundtrack winding through your brain all day, every day, and throughout the night, too. When you can think, you think other thoughts, but this soundtrack is

beating beating beating

at your livelihood. You want it to stop. You think it should stop. You want to make it stop and the more you think you can will it to stop, the worse it gets. The quiet background noise becomes a steady thrum, then a drumbeat in your brain. It hurts your head. You flinch and grit your teeth and move through the day.

That might mean eating bagged popcorn in bed with a glass of water or a mug of cold coffee. It might be sleeping in hopes that your brain will stop thinking. It might mean avoiding the shower because even though people think you must keep yourself immaculately clean…

You think your very presence is filthy, dirty, gross grungy, and too difficult to face.

You leave your sweatpants and t-shirt on. You brush your teeth for the first time in three days. This is a win. You eat dinner when it’s set in front of you. You take your medication. Win. Win. You write. Win. And you, is of course, me. It’s somehow easier to talk about myself in the second person.

Second person. Like a split. Sometimes I’m okay. Sometimes I’m not. The second person.

2020. 1929. 1918. 1820. 1930. 2021.

Years. Years. Years. Years. Years.

Covid-19 Great Depression begins Spanish Flu Still American Slavery Dust Bowl, Dirty Thirties Global pandemic continues.

It’s a jumble. History. My brain. Quantum physics. We’re on the edge of great understanding. Massive dying. Potential breakthroughs. It’s terrifying, inaccessible, frightening.

What happens when you’re diagnosed with acute depression and clinical Obsessive Compulsive Disorder just prior to a pandemic? What happens when your counselor of nine years retires just before you have a major breakdown? What happens when you finally get an SNRI that helps you, you resign from your job, and you realize you’ve been living with chronic pain for years?

And, then, boom — LOCKDOWN? It’s a fucking relief. That’s what. Everyone’s washing their hands? Great. It’s best to pick up our groceries? Wonderful. Kids have to attend virtual school this year? Spectacular.

I drop into my writing. I fall, fall, fall, fall, fall, fall, fall, fall, fall, fall, fall, fall, fall, fall, fall, fall down the black hole of my writing. I write my memoir. I join a virtual writing group. I join a virtual nature healing group. I discover Human Design. I edit. I get writing gigs. I find a writing platform where I can get paid. I climb up, up, up, up, up, up, up, up. I’m feeling pretty good.

December 30, 2020. My bad habits have been sliding in like a bad boyfriend I can’t resist. Yesterday, my husband said, “You’ve been eating in bed. You’re not getting dressed. You’re slipping.” I said, “Uh-huh,” with a grin. I’ve got it all under control. No problem. No worries. Everything’s fine, fine, fine.

Only, it’s not. In an odd moment of motivation, after ten at night, I strip the sheets from our bed and toss them in the laundry. I go to grab a new sheet set and am denied. All the freaking bottom sheets are dirty.

We pared down. Got rid of sheets and things. When you keep on top of the laundry, it’s great, no problem. I’m not a night owl. And, I’m pissed. I’m pissed at myself. I’m pissed at the world. I’m pissed at 2020. I’m pissed at my OCD. I’m pissed I can’t sink into my bed right now and go to sleep.

Covid-19? I’m pissed the pandemic has been my relief. My ticket to avoiding everything. How will I do around germs out in the wide, wide world? Probably not great. I hide behind a mask when we see friends or family. At home, I hide in my bedroom or office.

I’ve carefully put away the dishes. Keeping my pinkish-red spot away from everything. The sheets are tumbling in the washing machine. I calculate how long it will take. I think I can make the bed before midnight.

I remove the dish towels from the dryer, drop them in the pale green laundry basket, and move to the kitchen where I ever so carefully trifold dishtowels the way Marie Kondo taught me. Still, I glance down at the glistening pink and make sure it touches nothing.

My husband’s grumbling. The dog is whining. My son is crying. My daughter is disappeared in her bedroom. I’ve gone to my make-shift, pandemic office, and started typing, typing, typing.

I pause.

It hits me. I’m not doing better. 2020 hasn’t been some magical unicorn year for my healing. It’s been a protective shield, keeping me from the outer world. Medication alone won’t cut it. I can’t fix this myself.

2021 won’t magically fix my OCD or erase a global pandemic. The problems that come with both are here for a good long while.

Admitting this to myself is a relief.

Eleven p.m. The sheets are spinning, spinning. I stare at the shaking machine and realize I can’t reach my hand in without worrying. I go down the hall and grab the box of band-aids. A brown butterfly shaped bandage now on the back of my hand, the glowing green lights on the machine are off while it finishes its ferocious spin.

I lift the lid, pick up the sheets and notice they drag the floor a bit. It’s okay. Put them in the dryer, I argue with the beating, beating, beating, beating voice telling me I should wash them again.

I wish 2020 was the year I got “cured”. I wish, I wish, I wish…

Admitting I can’t wish away any of this is a relief.