I have to admit, there are moments when my obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) makes me feel somewhat sorry for myself. Why can’t I have a less intrusive condition, like excessive earwax or a hammertoe? Yet, as I start to think about managing earwax, I find myself grateful for my OCD. After all, it’s not the end of the world. I still manage to live a fairly normal life without the need for orthotics.
As I write this, I’m lounging by the hotel pool on the first day of my five-day getaway. The resort is stunning—featuring a massive infinity pool with fountains cascading all around. A friendly staff member is delivering refreshing water infused with strawberries, along with warm towels. I’m alternating between enjoying a captivating novel and tackling a challenging word puzzle. It feels almost idyllic.
But then, a child’s shrill voice cuts through my bliss: “Help! Mom, Dad, look! Help! Look at me! Help!” Clearly, this kid hasn’t read The Boy Who Cried Wolf. I shoot him a glare in hopes of conveying my annoyance, but that’s when I notice it: the mother of all boogers he’s brandishing triumphantly. He holds it up as if it were a trophy, and I find myself silently wishing he would eat it. No such luck—he flicks it into the pool water. The same water my partner is beckoning me to join him in. I’m going to have to wade through a sea of snot to reach him.
I quickly decide that if I enter the pool from the opposite side, I can avoid whatever childhood germs the Screamer might be harboring. So, I perform a frantic jig around the pool’s edge (the deck is blazing hot) and swim towards my husband from behind. He turns around, surprised.
“Why didn’t you just get in at the steps near our chairs?” he asks.
“Oh,” I reply, “I wanted to sneak up on you. I was being stealthy.”
“Then you should have skipped the hot coal dance. Everyone was staring at you.”
He pulls me in for a hug, and for a moment, I’m enjoying the intimacy—we rarely get this time alone in the pool. But then my eyes begin to scan the surface for The Booger. Could it have drifted to the other side? Is there a current in here?
“Did you hear me?” my husband inquires.
“No,” I admit. “I was distracted.”
“By the baby?”
No, by my urge to wear a Hazmat suit. “What baby?” I ask, my eyes darting around for a chubby-cheeked distraction to obliterate the image of a giant blob of snot engulfing me.
“There!” my husband points. “Playing on the steps.”
I spot the baby—well, more of a toddler—whose diaper is sagging alarmingly low. I lift my head higher on my husband’s shoulder, trying to keep my hair from touching anything, while clenching my Kegel muscles as if to ward off impending E. Coli. I start contemplating the safest exit from this germ-ridden pool.
“Can we get out?” I plead.
“So soon? It’s so nice.”
“I know, but I’m burning. I should really get out of the sun.” (And away from this germ-filled Petri dish.)
With some reluctance, my husband—well-versed in my “quirks”—lets me go. He understands that reasoning with me is futile because OCD is not a rational condition. My mind is wired to obsess over germs and health risks, and even though I manage my compulsions with therapy and medication, the thought of swimming in a pool of boogers and feces is more than I can bear. No amount of Purell will remedy this situation; I’m going to need a full-on decontamination shower.
I close my eyes and make a beeline for the steps, dodging Poopy Pants as I go. Once out of the pool, I dash upstairs to shower in scorching hot water and wash my swimsuit with Woolite before hanging it to dry on the balcony. Suddenly, I’m exhausted. I need a nap.
I strip the bed of its comforter and decorative pillows (which I’m convinced are never cleaned) and inspect the sheets for any signs of contamination. I wish I had one of those Luminol lights like the ones used in crime shows! Do they sell them on Amazon? As I sit with my legs stretched out on the bed and my computer in my lap, I notice something: the slightest curling of my toes…
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In summary, living with OCD can make even the most enjoyable experiences, like vacationing, feel overwhelming at times. While I strive to enjoy moments with my loved ones, my mind continuously battles intrusive thoughts that can turn leisure into anxiety.