{"id":87803,"date":"2015-07-15T13:46:14","date_gmt":"2015-07-15T17:46:14","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=87803"},"modified":"2015-07-15T14:39:23","modified_gmt":"2015-07-15T18:39:23","slug":"no-bad-things","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/07\/15\/no-bad-things\/","title":{"rendered":"No Bad Things"},"content":{"rendered":"

Growing up with obsessive-compulsive disorder.<\/em><\/p>\n

\"tait_sokol_ocd\"<\/a>

Illustration: Thomas Tait<\/p><\/div>\n

From the ages of twelve to fifteen, I went through an obsessive-compulsive rigmarole before bed every night. The process demanded a minimum of two hours filled with concentrated touching, blinking, gulping, repetitive thinking, and chanting. If I botched any part of this strict routine, or if I was interrupted, I\u2019d have to start the whole ordeal again, often tacking on an extra hour.<\/p>\n

When I finished, I\u2019d tuck myself into a sleeping bag under my covers, even during the most humid summer nights. I did all this out of fear: if I didn\u2019t adhere to my compulsions, I thought, I would be brutally murdered in the middle of the night by a nonspecific being, or snakes would slither up my bedpost from beneath the frame and bite the soft spots between my toes. I used the heatstroke-friendly sleeping bag to \u201cprotect\u201d my vulnerable digits.<\/p>\n

Even then, I understood that my compulsions didn\u2019t make sense. Many people with OCD are aware of the irrationality of their\u00a0compulsions. But our behavior and our habits are governed by an internal system, a logic engineered to quell fear and anxiety so we can operate within our skulls and in the outside world. These rules, mind games, and habits are reinforced through practice. They become a way of life. <\/p>\n

Though there\u2019s a lot of overlap among the repetitive behaviors that people with OCD share, every person\u2019s habits are as unique as his personality. Or, at least, the mental Hula-Hoops and self-justified raison d\u2019\u00eatre<\/em> of each compulsion are unique. The reason I organize my life in sets of fives may be different from the reason another person with OCD uses the same number to create internal order. And we might both touch locks, but not in the same way or for the same reason. Furthermore, the habits and regular tics shift and evolve over time. Many people are stuck with the disorder for life. Its intensity can fade or be mitigated with therapy, medication, et cetera, or it can return with potency during periods of stress. While I don\u2019t know if it can fully disappear, I do know that, for me, the practices that define my OCD have developed as I have.<\/p>\n

Over the course of my adolescence, I\u2019d frequently try to overcome one tic by replacing it with another\u2014a psyche hack, of sorts. But this often created a more arduous obsession that would control a new part of my day-to-day life. When I was in third grade, every time a terrifying or negative image invaded my mind\u2019s eye, I\u2019d bite down on my tongue, as if immediate pain would nix hypothetical future pain. When it got to the point where my tongue started bleeding, I replaced the biting with a new habit: I would gulp or swallow the saliva in my mouth while imagining a red antismoking symbol surging through whatever thought was plaguing my brain. The symbol would have to cut through a mental visualization of the thought upward and to the right, as magical thinking demanded that I progress upward<\/em>, higher! Better! To the heavens! <\/em>in all aspects of life. I always wanted to be right<\/em>, not left and wrong.<\/em> Ironically, one of my biggest compulsions today relates to smoking cigarettes\u2014so that more semiotic habit never protected me in the long run.<\/p>\n

I had seemingly infinite habits, but that nightly routine, which lasted for three solid years, was one of the most exhausting\u2014quite literally, as I\u2019d be up until odd hours in the morning, stuck in an OCD K-hole. My compulsions were at their strongest as I was starting middle school, blitzed with all sorts of hormones. I thought I\u2019d forget pieces of my routine, but the rote rehearsal and muscle memory make it all easy to bring back. The process would start after I brushed my teeth and washed my face in the bathroom, a few feet away from my bedroom door. Once I was inside my room, I was inside my room<\/em>, and going back to the bathroom counted as an interruption that would reignite the whole mental checklist of compulsions I had to placate before I could finally go to bed. Often, I\u2019d be deep into the routine and would suddenly have to pee, but I was so spent from the habits that the thought of leaving and starting over was too much. I\u2019d go into my closet, quietly piss in the corner, and then cover it all in water, as this was infinitely better than restarting. That shabby blue carpet probably had an ever-present layer of dank urine, at least an inch thick.<\/p>\n

My room had a double-sized mattress, a futon, a desk, a closet, and a door to an outdoor deck. Most of my bedroom-related fear revolved around imagining deranged figures bursting through that door to the outside world, a place filled with uncontrollable objects and happenings\u2014so I\u2019d start there, officially, by getting on my knees in a kowtow and aligning my eyes with the lock. I\u2019d push on the lock and hold it tight for thirty-two seconds\u2014one of my compulsive numbers, others being multiples of two and ten. Five was the ultimate number, as it was the only odd one in my repertoire, the logic being that I wanted to be an even person, not an odd one<\/em>, and numbers like thirteen were strictly off-limits. After that half minute was up and my knuckles were white from the pressure, I\u2019d stare at the lock, gulping and imagining the antismoking sign cutting through the lock to negate any possibly bad things that could happen, like nonexisting serial killers breaking in. I\u2019d gulp five times, touch the lock for another thirty-two seconds, and then gulp five more times to punctuate the action. If it didn\u2019t feel right (and it never did on the first try), I\u2019d do it again. And again. If I broke my concentration and looked away, I\u2019d have to start again.<\/p>\n

This was step one.<\/p>\n

Next came a similar checking process through the rest of my room in a calculated sequence\u2014the closet first, then the futon, the desk, the nightstand, the space behind the bedroom door, and finally under my bed. I proceeded clockwise to each object. Time and numbers were the bigger-picture regulatory concepts overlooking all my smaller habits. Each part of my room had its own mental requisites of gulping, counting, and touching. When I checked behind my door, I\u2019d insert my big toe into the corner where two walls met while I gulped and counted. Right angles were also very important. I had to press the toenail in while counting and thinking, and I wouldn\u2019t let up until it was perfect, which regularly resulted in my nail cracking. Checking under my bed for those imaginary snakes, I\u2019d strain my neck so much that I\u2019d pull muscles in it. (Though I hate to admit it, that one episode of Girls <\/em>where Lena Dunham\u2019s character hurts her eardrum through a compulsive Q-tip habit felt a little close to home.)<\/p>\n

When I finally climbed into my bed, it felt like hitting a massive checkpoint in a video game\u2014but I still had a Ganon-like boss to take on before I could get into my sleeping bag. On my nightstand was a bonsai tree, a lamp, a red water bottle, and my alarm clock, each of which required not only the grueling touching and gulping process but a kind of mental conversation. I didn\u2019t think these objects were animated. I didn\u2019t believe I was actually communicating with them. Still, to placate my psyche, I had to either chant out loud or shout in my head to these objects. Repetitively, I\u2019d ask each to keep my family, our pets, my friends, their families, their pets, and me safe, healthy, happy, and successful, and that no bad things would happen to any of us (in that order). I\u2019d often mess up the order or not speak\/think some part of the mantra articulately enough, and then I\u2019d have to start the murmuring again; or my mouth would be too dry from the nonstop gulping, and I\u2019d have to take a sip of water and then restart. Thinking or mumbling at these objects was my own version of some sort of obsequious prayer. I believed my disorder decided my fate.<\/p>\n

This was very much a lifestyle, and I don\u2019t remember exactly how I broke it or when I stopped sleeping in that Patagonia heat trap. But I\u2019m glad I never took meds for my OCD, though therapy was fucking essential. What\u2019s important to me now is that this routine, in its own special, torturous way, helped inform the development of my personality. Some of my mental acrobatics were extremely creative\u2014even if masochistic\u2014and that warped thinking was ultimately transferred into practices I\u2019m passionate about today. Back then, I was hyperfocused and disciplined. I made sure I finished each compulsion. Later, I brought this dedication to what I think of as practical life rehearsals, studying being the most obvious.<\/p>\n

As a friend once wrote in a starkly honest essay for The Atlantic<\/a>, <\/em>the tics associated with OCD are more widely understood than the darker, obsessive thought processes that many people with the disorder experience. Similarly, a colleague of mine wrote about society\u2019s tendency to belittle and misunderstand OCD<\/a>. I still believe that the average person, to say nothing of pop culture, doesn\u2019t really understand how creative, bizarre, and sometimes ineffable the actual compulsive habits can be. As my routine suggests, the disorder is more complex than its usual, phobic presentation: \u201cI have to clean that doorknob before I touch it because there are germs on it and germs are bad.\u201d People understand when I explain that I do things that I recognize don\u2019t make sense, and that I must do them to continue functioning. But explaining the self-created logic behind my actions, and how this logic informs my identity, usually elicits blank stares. It\u2019s a disorder that marks us in strange ways, and not always for the worse. Even today, for instance, I derive a fetishistic satisfaction from sleeping bags\u2014but I\u2019ll always be terrified of snakes.<\/p>\n

Zach Sokol is a writer who lives in Brooklyn, New York. He works for <\/em>VICE magazine\u2019s editorial team, usually focusing on fringe arts and culture. He likes cats and the musician Dean Blunt, and he no longer sleeps in a sleeping bag.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Growing up with obsessive-compulsive disorder. From the ages of twelve to fifteen, I went through an obsessive-compulsive rigmarole before bed every night. The process demanded a minimum of two hours filled with concentrated touching, blinking, gulping, repetitive thinking, and chanting. If I botched any part of this strict routine, or if I was interrupted, I\u2019d […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":856,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[4064,8892,18795,18800,18799,12192,18796,18797,3612,18798,6695],"class_list":["post-87803","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person","tag-adolescence","tag-childhood","tag-obsessive-compulsive-disorder","tag-ocd","tag-pathology","tag-prayer","tag-procedures","tag-processes","tag-psychology","tag-routines","tag-smoking"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nGrowing Up With Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"The tics associated with OCD are more widely understood than the darker, obsessive thought processes that many people with the disorder experience.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, 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