Confessions Of An OCD

I was in college when I discovered I was cursed. Every time I stood next to a bedside, my fingers would start twitching uncontrollably. It started with a tug here and a pull there and then it developed into a full blown obsession. One look at a crumpled bedsheet and I would be on all fours, wading through a sea of creases.

Believe me I tried my best to conceal this terrible secret of mine. Made sure no one was looking when I lunged towards the bed. But how long can you hide, how long can you cover-up your shameful deeds? My Mom was the first to notice it. That she was shocked, would be putting it mildly but later accepted it gracefully. It’s only a Mom who can say – tedhi hai par meri hai (she may be damaged but she is mine)

Unfortunately this was just the beginning. Soon I graduated to bigger things. Crouching under the table, shaking my head in disgust, arranging neat stacks and trying to bring some order in this chaotic world. It seemed I was the lone crusader, fighting a losing battle. Soon, the dusting cloth became my best friend.

Courtesy - Google Images

The exclusive club of the loonies had just acquired its newest, freshly minted OCD.

I had no idea that I had this coming. As a child I was terrible messy. My books always looked like a “mountain of knowledge”. My cupboard, as if a whirlwind had just passed through it. Each time my Dad tried to clean my study table, he would excavate hidden gems - naughty notes from my teachers, carefully hidden answer sheets, green furry green things that were once chapattis. .. A lot of drama would ensue with my parents launching into emotionally charged sermons and me blinking away tears of remorse.

The only thing I was particular about was my impeccably ironed clothes. I made sure, even my sweater had razor sharp creases.

Life was not this simple anymore. Dust had become my biggest enemy and creases a conspiracy, out to rob my peace of mind.

It became worse after I got married. Suddenly I had an entire house at my mercy. With missionary zeal I would launch myself at dusty windows, excavate ancient garbage from under the bed, and scrub the fridge with rivulets of sweat trickling down my back, till our barsati apartment started looking like the ultimate in orderliness. When relatives came visiting us, I was made to open cupboards and shelves, so that they could dissolve into orgasmic oohs and aahs!

I knew that I was doomed. Caught in a catch 22 situation, there was no way I could let my fans down. So I kept setting cleaner standards for myself.

The sad part is once you start, there is no end to it. As you lie on bed to take a breather, all you see is dust on the fan blades and window grills. While visiting your loved ones, you recoil at the sight of cobwebs hanging tantalizingly from dark corners. You can’t take your eyes off it even as you are devouring your fifth mutton chop, trying to make them vanish (the cobwebs) with your superpowers. When you are out shopping for home decor, most of them are rejected because they didn’t pass the Ray dust-detection vision! Naah...this is too white, too fragile, has too many carvings and you’ll spend most of the day trying to keep it dust free!

The terrible realization that the mess around you is capable of messing with your peace of mind...

Thankfully with realization comes revelation that everything including peace of mind has a price. All you have to do is outsource your worry to a willing, helping hand. The beauty of stumbling upon the inevitable - What you can do, your maid can do better.

It also helped that God with his twisted sense of humour, gifted me a daughter who thinks cleanliness is a state of mind. All you have to do is train yourself to think it doesn’t exist. So the mother and daughter don’t exactly see eye to eye! She hoards what I think is junk and is constantly accusing me when things go missing from her cupboard.

Like any thoughtful mother, I make sure she’s sleeping when I consign junk to its rightful place.

I can’t claim to have recovered. On the contrary, I have many more obsessions vying for my attention now. It does get tough having to juggle so many of them at the same time and I admit that I often end up ignoring my first love. But on days I get nostalgic about my OCD and find myself atop ladders or hanging from ceiling fans, I make sure I’m not home alone. After all I do need someone to rush me to the hospital, in case I have a mighty great fall.

Imagine the terrible damage to my impeccably clean image, if I am discovered under a heap of dust by some random stranger!

P.S The insanity of the protagonist is more imagined than real. Any resemblance to a living character is purely coincidental.