OCD victory: My hands in dirt

 

 

This spring I’ve written about the joy that I’ve gotten from my foray into vegetable gardening.

My joy goes beyond my pleasure in watching things grow and the solace it brings my soul to dig in the dirt and interact with nature.

My gardening is also a sign of a victory over OCD.

 One of the ways my OCD has manifested itself is through contamination fears. Basically, I feared germs because of the possibility of spreading them to others and making them ill.

One of the ways I dealt with my obsessions over germs was to wash my hands compulsively. I’ve written about how red and raw my hands and wrists became because I washed them over and over in hot water and soap.

Another way I dealt with my fears over germs was to avoid situations and activities where I was sure to get my hands dirty. Like putting my hands in dirt, on purpose.

 
  Over the years, I have experienced many victories over contamination fears. When I first started treatment for OCD and depression, I was able to start having houseplants. And I’ve had flower gardens sporadically through the years.

 But this is my first full gardening experience.

It feels good to know that OCD is not stopping me from doing something that I enjoy.

The journey to overcome my contamination obsessions and compulsions has not been short or easy. I’ve taken medication that has side effects and costs money that I would love spend elsewhere. I’ve taken therapy. I’ve read books and put new ways of thinking and reacting into practice.

 I’m not saying that I am no longer affected by my OCD. Each day brings its challenges, some big, some small. But I can more easily deal with the challenges, more easily turn back to what I was doing before the OCD interfered.

 If you have OCD, I encourage you to get treatment, to do the things—and it will probably be a variety of things—that will enable you to overcome the stifling effects of OCD.

 And for all of us who struggle with issues—maybe issues that no one knows about—let’s hold hope and do the work that we need to do to remember the joy that can be a part of any life.

 It’s been worth every penny and every struggle to stand in front of my garden and look at those lovely little plants beginning their own journey.

 What are you now enjoying in life that once seemed out of reach?

And I cooked again

Yes, I cooked. Not just in the microwave, which I do quite often. I cooked on a regular stove.

Over the past weekend, I fixed a simple vegetarian pasta dish. It tasted good. Even Larry, who says he’s a carnivore, not an omnivore, liked it and asked for seconds.

It probably sounds ridiculous that a 50 year old person is happy about cooking a simple dish on the stove.

I’ve written about why I don’t cook very often before. If you’ve read about my OCD obsession with stoves, you know that I have had a really hard time in the past cooking on a conventional stove.

Most of my problems with the stove are in the past. This is the way it was:

It was all wrapped up in the obsessions I had about safety. I worried that I was going to leave the stove on and cause a fire, which would hurt or kill my family.

So when the cooking was done, I compulsively turned the stove off and then on again, off, then on again, over and over. I stared at the stove, trying to convince myself that it was really off.

And then there were the contamination fears. I worried that I wouldn’t clean up after the food preparation, and errant crumbs and spills would draw ants and bugs and mice. And then there would be more contamination.

So I compulsively cleaned, wiping the counter over and over, eyeing it from every angle to make sure it was clean.

It was easier to just not cook.

I eventually learned that my compulsive acts did nothing to help me. OCD is tricky like that. Nothing calms the uncertainty for long before more compulsions have to be done.

The real way to break the OCD is to NOT give in to the compulsions, but rather, deal with the anxiety in other ways.

What worked for me was to leave the scene and get busy doing something else. Or I sometimes focused on the anxiety itself.

Whatever I did, I could not indulge in compulsions. In other words, once I turned off the stove, I had to walk away. I couldn’t check it. I couldn’t turn the knob to “make sure” it was off. Likewise, once I cleaned the counter—one pass over with disinfectant and water—I had to leave it.

My OCD has been better over the past several months. And I started thinking about cooking again. Larry and I eat out a lot. Both of us need to eat healthier. I decided that the best way for us to do that was to eat at home more and eat homemade food.

So I cooked Saturday night. I decided I could do it with a minimum of anxiety. And if I did get anxious, I had the tools to push through it.

I turned on the stove, cooked, and then I turned off the stove. I had a little bit of doubt. Then I turned away from the stove. I did OK.

I don’t think I’ll ever love to cook. It’s just not something I want to do a lot of. But if I can cook a healthy meal and feed my husband and myself at home, then I have accomplished something.

Have you cooked anything good lately?

A garden

I’m going to be getting my hands dirty, and I’m excited about it.

Larry and I are planning to build raised beds in our backyard for a vegetable garden next year. We’ve walked the yard and decided where to put it. We’ve talked about size and design. We’ve discussed dirt. We’ve considered how to keep the wildlife from eating everything in it.

We’re making plans for a garden.

Site for our raised beds. Larry's shop and a tool shed are in the background.

At one time, I never could have written those words and been happy about them. I was so consumed by fears of contamination that I engaged in compulsive hand washing that left my hands and wrists red and raw. I avoided anything that might get my hands dirty, including garden dirt.

My fear of contamination was rampant when I was a teenager and young adult. Over the years, with treatment for OCD, my fears have greatly subsided.

I’ve even had flower gardens and potted plants. I enjoyed working in the dirt and watching plants grow.

So why haven’t I taken the next step and put in a garden before now? I grew up on a farm, after all. My parents put in a garden every year, usually a huge one. They always planted extra in case neighbors or family didn’t have a good year.

My parents' garden on their farm in rural Virginia in 1985.

Another view of my parents' garden, circa 1985.

My parents' garden in 1988.

Larry and I have talked about putting in a garden. One year we even grew tomato plants. Unfortunately, the deer and groundhogs ate all but a few of them.

What has really kept us from moving forward has been my reluctance to commit to it. One way depression affects me is to drain every bit of motivation out of me. I become married to just a few activities that don’t take a lot of energy and don’t ask too much of me.

Even when depression is treated with medication and therapy, old habits of procrastination and complacency die hard.

But this year of contemplating “letting go” has led me to want to do more, to not waste time.

So along with getting good treatment for my depression, I’ve been making more of an effort to do things.

Unbeknownst to me, Larry started researching raised beds. He began thinking how he could build the frame, how he could build a fence around it. A couple of weeks ago, he broached the subject to me and since then, the ideas have been percolating.

We’ll build it this summer or early fall, then nurture the soil to get it ready for next spring. I’ll have to do some research to figure out what to plant and when to plant things.

Having a garden to care for will be a challenge for me. I will have to work in it whether or not I feel like it.

But I know it will also give me a sense of accomplishment. It will give me a much-needed connection to nature. And it will give Larry and me fresh produce to eat and share with others.

Do you have a garden? If so, do you grow flowers, vegetables or both? What do you enjoy the most about having one?

Spring fever, stuck in winter

I’m missing spring.

Or, to be more accurate, I feel like I’m missing spring.

I was looking through some photos on my computer and found a whole folder of pictures that I took last spring. Some I shared with you on this blog. I seemed to be out and about a lot, catching shots of blooms and a little wildlife. There are even photos of me on a bike. Me, being active!

It seems like a long time since I’ve been very active. I’ve been in The Monster Boot and on crutches for a little over five weeks. Even before then, for weeks, my foot hurt so much that I wasn’t walking much.

(Note: There’s a lesson here. If your foot hurts and doesn’t stop, go to the doctor. Do not wait, thinking, “It will get better soon.” It might not get better on its own.)

I’m sorry to whine. I really am. But I’m feeling like—well, like I’m missing something. A whole season.

Part of it is the OCD. I could go out into the yard on my crutches. I’m sure if I asked, Larry would drive me down to the park and I could walk around.

But there’s all that dirt, some of it damp, some of it plain mud. And there are other things on the ground that I don’t know about. What if I get my crutches and boot dirty? I know how hard it would be to clean them “good enough.”

Or so my OCD thinking goes.

Maybe there’s an exposure there waiting to happen. Maybe I should just go out into the yard and take pictures and feel the warmth of spring. And if I get dirt on my crutches or boot, then I’ll clean them. And deal with it.

Actually, that’s what I am going to have to do. Face the anxiety, be uncomfortable, but get outside!

But probably not today. I have another appointment with my orthopedic doctor this afternoon. More X-rays. I hope that the bone is healing. I hope I can give up the crutches.

If I have to keep the crutches, I’ll deal with it. They’re my extra paws, you know.

For the time being, here are some of those photos from last spring. They were taken in my neighborhood, in the park by the river and at a nearby pond.

Please share in the comments what you’re doing to enjoy spring.

***

A housekeeping note: I’ve had problems with spam, so I experimented with different settings for making comments.

I did word verification for a while, but I was afraid that might be dissuading some of you from commenting.

So I tried the setting where you have to be registered to comment. That took care of the spam, but some of you were not able to comment, or it was a problem to comment.

I’ve gone back to the open setting. Your comments are precious to me!

Adapting in the world of OCD and depression

Several years ago, during a bad time with my depression, my family doctor told me I would probably always have low times and have to have my medications tweaked. But he said I could learn to adapt to having to do this, adapt to the way I was.

I’ve been thinking about adapting a lot lately. I’ve had to make a lot of adaptations in my daily life because of a change, namely a broken bone in my foot.

A broken foot is not a tragic circumstance. There are so many people who are suffering so much worse than me.

But any change in the life of someone with OCD and depression can cause anxiety. 

Three weeks ago, I wrote about having anxiety over my broken foot. I had worries about how I would handle the OCD and other anxiety associated with a change in my daily life.

But I would adapt, I wrote.

And I have adapted. I have made adjustments in my schedule, in how I do things, in order to accommodate the orthopedic boot I must wear and the crutches I’m supposed to use.

Here are a few of the changes I’ve had to make to adapt to having a broken foot:

I had to learn to navigate the world using crutches.

 It hurt at first. My upper arms got incredibly sore from using the crutches. But I kept telling myself that I had to keep using them to let my body get used to them. And it did.

The purse I was carrying was just too heavy for me to try to tote along with crutches.

Of course, the purse would not have been so heavy if I didn’t stuff so much into it!

 I switched to this purse, which was a little easier to carry on my shoulder.

And if it falls from my shoulder while I’m using my crutches, it’s not too heavy on my arm.

I used to drive every day. I drove myself to work and to all my work-related appointments.

I haven’t driven for three weeks. Larry has driven me everywhere I needed to go.

He’s an excellent driver and has been incredibly helpful and patient. But it’s hard to give up the “control” of getting myself from one place to another.

More than once I’ve stood up at work and gotten my things together, forgetting for a short time that I couldn’t just walk out the door to my car and drive home. I had to wait for my ride.

My contamination OCD bothered me a little. I was anxious about keeping the boot clean. But I started thinking of my boot as just another shoe. Whatever my shoe on my left foot could touch, so could the boot on my right foot. That thinking helped.

So did good old exposures. I had to walk some places, like public bathrooms, where I didn’t really want to with my boot. I forced myself to do it, and soon enough the anxiety waned.

 I have an appointment with my orthopedic doctor this afternoon to check to see if the bone is healing.

I may need surgery. Hopefully, I won’t.

But no matter what the doctor determines today, I know that I can adapt to what comes next.

Adapting has taught me some things: gratitude, patience and confidence.

*I am grateful that the adaptations I’ve had to make are temporary. My foot will heal. I will reach the point where I won’t be on crutches and I won’t need to wear an orthopedic boot.

*I’ve learned to take some things slower. I have to go up and down steps very slowly, one step at a time. It takes me longer to get from point A to point B. That’s OK. Life doesn’t fall apart if I’m not rushing from one place to the next.

*I’ve learned to have confidence in my ability to handle changes. If I have to make more adaptations, I can do it. I’ve done it before. I can do it again.

What have you learned from having to adapt to changes in life?

OCD and the loss of dreams



The building at Bowling Green State University where I took many classes and taught many classes.



Obsessive-compulsive disorder, a debilitating anxiety disorder, can take a lot away from us. It can take time, money, peace of mind, self-esteem. And dreams.

The dream

When I was a senior in college, I began to worry about what I would do once I graduated.

I wanted to be a writer or a social worker. Those were my two interests. The desire to write had been with me since I was a child. The desire to be a social worker was ignited during one of several sociology classes I took in college.

Basically, I wanted to write, and I wanted to save the world. With a degree in English.

During my last semester, one of my professors talked with me about my future and suggested that I go to graduate school. I could teach and become a professor and write important literary papers and books.

I liked the idea, and I liked the thought of having a definite place to go after graduation from college.

So I applied and got accepted into Bowling Green State University in Ohio. They gave me a graduate assistantship, which meant they paid my tuition and gave me a stipend in exchange for teaching while I worked on my master’s degree in English.

I took classes and taught classes for two years, writing a thesis during my last semester (which is a story in itself that I will have to tell you one day). And I finished. I got my M.A. in English.

The next step, if I hoped to become a college professor, was to get a Ph.D. I chose to stay at BGSU for my doctoral work.

For the next two or so years, I took classes, put together a doctoral committee, chose a genre and time period to focus on, created a reading list for my doctoral exams, studied for my exams, took my written and oral exams, chose a dissertation topic, did preliminary research, put together a proposal for my dissertation, and gave a public presentation of that proposal.

I passed everything and ended up being in ABD status: All But Dissertation.

In other words, all I had left to do before receiving my doctorate was to write my dissertation. As my dissertation chair told me, “All you have left to do is to write a very long paper.”

One more step. One more task.

The OCD

What I haven’t told you yet is how OCD was a part of those years that I worked so hard.

I had reading OCD, which grew worse as I moved into the doctoral program. There were many books on my reading list that I was never able to finish because of OCD.

I had OCD about my writing, which made me obsessed with the possibility of plagiarizing, making it difficult for me to research and to then write a coherent paper.

I had contamination OCD, which made me clean my bathroom for hours, vacuum my apartment repeatedly, wipe down my kitchen counters. I spent literally hours doing these compulsions.

I had checking OCD. For example, I could spend huge chunks of time checking the stove in my apartment, making sure it was off, even if I hadn’t used it.

I had hit-and-run OCD. I drove the streets of Bowling Green looking for bodies that I imagined could be there.

The loss

The OCD affected my performance in graduate school from the beginning, but it got worse as time went by. It became especially difficult to cope as I faced what seemed to be the monumental task of writing a dissertation in spite of not being able to properly read, research and write.

Even though I started medication treatment during my third year in my doctoral program, it didn’t help enough, or help in time, for me to finish the dissertation by the time my fellowship ran out.

I moved back to Virginia, with vague hopes of finishing my dissertation there. But the OCD, though drastically improved, still fed into my academic work.

I never finished my dissertation. I never finished my Ph.D.

The vow

It may sound strange, but I don’t wish I was a college professor. The writing I wanted to do had nothing to do with the study of contemporary fiction. I don’t miss teaching.

I don’t believe I wasted the time leading up to the dissertation because education is never wasted.

I don’t dwell on it like I used to. I don’t know that my life would have been better or more productive with a Ph.D.

What I do regret, though, is not finishing a goal after coming so close.

I regret the fact that OCD was so strong then that it affected me reaching my goal, my dream.

But with all my tools to fight OCD that I’ve gained through treatment, with all my intent to live a full life, I won’t let OCD take away any more dreams.

What ways have you protected your dreams and reached your goals?

Contamination OCD: What is that in my kitchen sink?

I saw Larry bringing a bicycle tire tube into the house. He walked in right beside where I was sitting at my computer. But I didn’t say anything.

I really didn’t think anything, either.

I knew he was looking for a possible hole in my bike tire, so I guess I just figured, vaguely, that it had something to do with that.

I was focusing on what I was doing, so I didn’t say a word.

Then I heard the water running in the kitchen.

I got up and walked to the kitchen door.

There my husband stood, tire tube in the sink. He was turning it round and round, looking for a hole.

In the kitchen sink.

I don’t even remember for sure what I said. Something like, “Oh, no, tell me you’re not doing that.”

I heard him call out, “What did you say?”

I was already on the way back to my computer.

I decided that I just didn’t want to see it. I didn’t want to stand and stare at something that would only upset me.

He would have to take care of any cleaning up, I decided.

He soon brought the tire tube to me, showing me the hole and asking me to mark it with a yellow highlighter, since I didn’t have any chalk.

I still didn’t say anything about the sink.

Let him handle it, I told myself.

Later, when he came back into the house from his shop, I did ask him about it.

“You’re going to wash out the sink, aren’t you?”

“Why would I need to do that?” he asked.

I knew that he was teasing me and that he would be washing the sink.

I just didn’t want to watch.

  Have you ever just let go like this, when you knew trying to control the situation would only upset you?

Jelly and toast: was this an OCD episode?

Larry and I were in a restaurant. I had ordered toast with my meal, so I wasn’t surprised by the waitress’s question. She had already taken our order, but was walking back by our table.

“Would you like butter and jelly with your toast?” she asked me.

“Yes, please” I said.

“Here you go.” And she laid a small plastic container of margarine and one of jelly on our table. “And I’ll bring you more.”

After she left, I wondered why she had been walking around with margarine and jelly in her hand. Then I realized that she had been cleaning off the table behind us.

She had given me the margarine and jelly that had been left on the table by the customers who had just left.

Larry and I talked about it. Wasn’t she supposed to throw out anything left over like that? How long had it been sitting out?

“I don’t want to use it,” I told Larry. “I don’t think it’s an OCD thing. I don’t think she was supposed to do that.”

“It’s a health issue,” Larry said.

He took a napkin and scooped up the plastic containers, and I ate only the margarine and jelly that the waitress brought from the kitchen.

Now, dear readers, did I do the right thing in not eating the first containers or margarine and jelly?

It didn’t feel like OCD. I didn’t feel anxious.

And yet, I wavered at making a decision. I hate to waste food. The food was sealed. What was wrong with using it? Was I being a stickler about a health code that might or might not exist? Or was I right to pass on eating it?

I purposely didn’t look up the health code in Virginia to see if the waitress made a mistake because I didn’t base my original decision not to eat the food on information I knew for sure.

But I guess I’m still thinking about it because here I am asking for your opinion.

Would you have eaten the margarine and jelly?

OCD and why I don't cook

I actually own some cookbooks and have a couple of my mother's recipe boxes.

It’s messy and there’s the whole stove thing.

I don’t cook because cleaning up during and afterwards brings out my contamination and cleaning obsessive-compulsive disorder symptoms.

No matter how careful I am, I sometimes spill food onto the kitchen counter when I mix together ingredients. Or I put down a bowl that held one of the ingredients and it leaves behind a ring of sauce, milk or whatever.

If I have to use the can opener, then I have to carefully wipe that off after I finish using it.

I worry that in cleaning off the counter, I may miss a spot and then ants or bugs might come around.

I don’t cook because a lot of cooking requires the stove. I can turn on the stove OK, but turning it off brings checking behavior with it. Is the stove really off, or do I just think it is? If I leave it on, a fire could start, or my husband might lay his hand on the stovetop, not knowing it was on, and burn himself. So goes my thinking.

Pans on the stovetop can also lead to food on the stovetop, leaving another surface to carefully clean and worry about.

Cooking anxiety

I have all this anxiety even though I’ve come a long way in my contamination and checking OCD symptoms.

I used to wipe the counter over and over, leaning down to view the countertop from different angles to make sure every bit was covered with cleaner. Then I’d clean it again. And again.

I used to check the stove for literally hours, staring at the on/off button, turning it on and off again and again, trying to get to the place where it felt “right” that the stove was off.

I no longer take so much time cleaning and checking the stove. I don’t follow through with all my compulsive urges. I can actually clean fairly quickly and turn off the stove in one attempt.

But the obsessions about cooking are still there, and it’s hard to face them every time I want something to eat.

So I avoid cooking.

Oh, I’ll put something in the microwave. But it’s rare that I mix ingredients and cook them on a conventional stove.

When I do cook, it’s a burden. There are so many things to worry about.

And I just don’t like to cook. I don’t read recipes with the same enthusiasm as my mother, who was a wonderful cook when she was still able to do it, and many friends, who discuss cooking like I would discuss a good book or movie.

I wonder if my dislike of cooking is directly related to my fear of cooking. I would guess that there’s at least a partial connection.

So how do we eat?

Breakfast is easy enough with oatmeal or grits cooked in the microwave, cold cereal, fruit or yogurt. I can eat sandwiches or snacks for lunch. My husband and I eat out for lunch sometimes, for dinner a lot.

We fix a couple of meals at home each week, usually using the microwave. We usually cook things separately, since I’m a vegetarian and Larry is not.

Sometimes my husband fixes spaghetti, with one pot of meat sauce and one pot of meatless sauce for me.

I want to cook

I want to cook more. I want to make food so we eat at home more often than we eat out. Cooking would result in healthier meals for me and for my husband. It would save money.

I want to enjoy cooking, because I feel like I’m missing out on something. I even recently bought a new vegetarian cookbook.

And I want to stop avoiding cooking. I want to stop giving in to the OCD and just push through and cook.

  Do you have any suggestions on how to do that? Do you like to cook? What about cooking do you enjoy? How did you get to that place of enjoying cooking?

OCD: An exposure I didn't plan

In my last post, I said I was going to do some exposures that I would write about.

In that same post, I also wrote about some physical health issues I’ve been having.

This post is about an exposure, but not one I was planning when I wrote that post on Sunday.

And it involves those health issues.

I wasn’t going to write about this. It was too personal, I thought, and my readers might not like it.

But this blog is about my life with OCD and the accompanying issues. I decided to share this exposure because it was about real life issues.

When I saw my family doctor last Friday, she ordered blood tests, a urinalysis, and a stool sample.

That last one got me. I could feel my mouth draw up a bit. I thought, doesn’t she remember that I have OCD? I just told her I was having anxiety from starting cognitive behavioral therapy. And she asks for a stool sample?

The doctor, of course, was interested in finding out what was causing my stomach pain and problems that have been ongoing for a while. So she went on talking to me, continuing to tell me what the course of action would be. She said that the nurse would give me what I needed to take a stool sample to the lab.

After my appointment, I walked out to my car and sat there while I talked with my husband on the phone. Then I realized that the nurse hadn’t given me the stool sample kit.

I admit, I wanted to just forget it. I wanted to take that as a sign that I really didn’t need to do it. Obviously, it wasn’t that important if the nurse forgot to give it to me, right?

But my husband said I needed to go back and get it. He was right. And I did.

Back inside, as the nurse told me what to do, I again could feel my mouth turning up.

“I think I’ll just wait until after all the blood work results come in,” I said.

The doctor had told me it would take about two weeks, so I thought that was a safe reprieve. And—this was my really, really good reason for waiting—the blood work results might reveal something that could be taken care of and I wouldn’t even have to do the stool sample.

The nurse gave me a look. She was probably thinking that I was a very weird woman.

“OK,” she said. “But you need to call me and let me know when you’re going to do it so I can fax the orders to the lab.”

All weekend, I ate very carefully, wanting to get better quickly so, again, maybe the stool sample wouldn’t be needed.

The nurse called me yesterday and said my white cell count was elevated.

“When are you going to do the stool sample?” she asked.

I guess she had forgotten my “wait until all the blood work comes back” excuse. I decided that I would try to make myself look a little more compliant.

“I’ll wait until after the urinalysis comes back,” I said.

It was going to be another couple of days, so I could continue to avoid the problem. Avoidance can be so sweet.

The nurse called me today. The urinalysis was negative.

“Then what’s wrong with me?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “That’s why we want to test your stool.”

I asked her to fax the orders to the lab.

Then I agonized about what to do. With my bathroom and contamination issues, I knew it would be a nightmare.

And there was the logistics matter. I had to get the sample to the lab within the hour of producing it. The lab was a good 45 minutes away.

I just wanted to forget all about it.

But I went to the doctor in the first place to get help. If I wanted help, I needed to follow through. Was I going to let OCD stop me?

I decided very quickly that I had to do it. I wouldn’t think about it anymore. I finished up some work and then went home.

It was not easy. I pretty much freaked out at one point. I wanted to clean the bathroom from top to bottom. I wanted to take a shower.

I didn’t have time, though. I had to get the sample to the lab, or—horrors—I’d have to do it again.

I made it out of the house after washing my hands only twice. I was feeling anxiety at a scale of about 9 all the way to the lab.

I kept glancing at my car clock, calculating how much time I had left. I worried about possible detours, or doing something that would cause a state trooper to pull me over. That would delay me. Then I figured I would just wave the biohazard bag at him, and he’d let me go.

I finally arrived at the lab, in time, and hurried inside, eager to get rid of that bag.

Ah, but there was a problem.

The woman at the front desk looked through the paperwork and said they hadn’t received the orders. Then she didn’t say anything.

I internally freaked out again, thinking I’d have to do all of this again and come back.

“Can I still leave it?”

“Yes,” she said. “But make sure your name and date of birth are on the cup.”

“It is,” I said, pointing to the label on top.

“It has to be on the side of the cup,” she said, and handed me a marker.

So I had to take the cup out of the biohazard bag and write the required information on the side of the cup.

I doubt if the outside of the cup was contaminated, but I did not want to touch it again.

I followed her instructions and then used the hand sanitizer at the door to the lab. I hoped that since it was in a lab, it would be extra sanitizing.

I thought later that I should have just asked where the bathroom was so I could wash my hands there. Anxiety makes you forget vital things.

Back in my car, I could feel my anxiety going down. I had done it. The worst was over. I didn’t have to do anything else but wait for the results.

I’m very tired, but I’m glad I did it.

OCD: Picking up sticks

It seems like a stick looking straight down, but at an angle, it looks like a nail. When I nudge it with my foot, it rolls a little, but I still can’t tell.

People are coming. I turn and walk in the direction of my original destination, the student services building.

But it might be a nail. Somebody might step on it and get hurt. It would be my fault.

I turn around again, and I walk back the 10 feet. People are passing by.

I lean forward, put my head down and move it around, like I’m looking over the ground below. Maybe they’ll think I’m just looking for something I dropped.

After they pass, I touch the stick/nail again with my shoe. I can’t tell.

I pick it up. It’s a stick. But it’s a hard stick. I can’t break it. Maybe it’s not a stick.

I place it at the edge of the sidewalk, right where the concrete meets the grass, out of the way of walkers.

I take up my journey again.

But someone could still step on it. And it might not be a stick.

I go back and pick up the stick. Maybe if people see me do it, they’ll think it’s something I dropped.

I carry it with me into student services, into the bathroom. I throw it into the trashcan. Then I wash my hands.

That’s a small illustration of one of my harm obsessions. It was strongest when I was in graduate school.

When I walked on the street or on campus or through a parking lot, I checked for things on the ground that could harm someone.



At one point in my life, a walk along here could cause me a lot of anxiety.



I don’t remember ever finding any nails. But I found lots of sticks and rocks that could potentially be harmful. Or so I thought.

Walking somewhere was never a quick trip or a straight journey from A to B when this OCD symptom was at its peak.

I had to check every stick I saw, every little rock and anything that looked like it could be harmful.

I had to stop and examine it. I had to pick up a lot of things to figure out what they were. And sometimes that wasn’t enough.

This harm obsession was sometimes at odds with my contamination obsession. If I picked up a stick or an unknown object, I was contaminating my hands. But I had to pick it up in order to keep other people safe.

That was what it was all about. Keeping other people safe. It was my responsibility.

So harm trumped contamination long enough for me to get to a sink to wash my hands.

When I started taking medication for my OCD and depression, some of my symptoms got a lot better. The picking-up-sticks was one of those.

My eyes are still drawn to potentially harmful objects on the ground, in the driveway, in the parking lot. But now I have a new tool. I can call the obsession for what it is—OCD—and walk on, refocus.

Have you experienced a checking or harm obsession like this?