My Navigation To The Kitchen Faucet

I was hiding behind the kitchen wall, waiting for my Grandma to walk away. I needed to wash my hands one more time. I always washed my hands at least twice. Sometimes four times, sometimes six or even eight. I followed the unspoken rule that the number of my hand washes must be “EVEN.” That rule was a mental demand I could not escape; an order I must follow; a thought pulsating in my bloodstream. It was the capturer that enslaved my mind.

I did not see Grandma, so I sneaked into the kitchen and opened the faucet.

-Nina! Turn the water off! - Grandma appeared out of nowhere.

-How many times can you wash your hands? The water bill was so expensive- she sounded frustrated.

-What is wrong with this child! whispered the older woman…” She is so weird,” she irritably blocked the kitchen sink with her tall posture and wide shoulders. At that moment, my tiny world was shaking; I sensed danger. I felt minuscule and helpless. And, alas, tearfully weird. My skinny body was shaking, being stuck between my distressed brain and a strong female figure. Despite the fear, I must find a way to wash my hands!

How could I explain that everything I do must be repeated? Repeated at least twice. Otherwise, I could not focus or function. If my routine was broken, I felt broken as much. Little me could not navigate among the odd numbers. I hated “one”, “three”, and “five” with all my little heart. But I loved numbers “two”, “four”, and “eight”. Number “FOUR” was my favorite! I loved “four” more than anything or anyone. Undoubtedly, I loved the number “FOUR” more than my grandmother.

Starting at an early age, I counted everything. Steps. Words. Handwashes. Forks on the dining table and the number of breadcrumbs at the end of the dinner. I could not fall asleep until I said an even number of “good nights” and heard the same number of responses. Unfortunately, counting was not only “weirdness” that controlled me. If my fingers touch the surface, I must rinse them. At least twice. And that list could go on.

I often wondered how others coped with this routine: count and repeat. Since no one talked about it, my young, naïve mind was too scared to ask or seek help. So, I dealt with reality on my own. My world was invisible to those around me but certainly unfeigned to me. Even though I was a child, I walked my mental journey solo, in complete isolation. There was no one to hold my cold hands or to warm up my bony shoulders. On my own, I was constantly looking for ways to “rinse and repeat” without being punished for wasting extra water. My growing mind felt so lonely and wearily burdened that it had never learned to enjoy the innocence of childhood. Instead, the pressure to “adult” and figure it out was my daily companion.

I was still standing in the kitchen, waiting for Grandma to disappear. For a moment, my brain felt paralyzed. So, I turned away, bumped my pinky on the wall—oh, no! now I had to rinse that pinky. At least twice!

-Why are you still here? – barked my grandma, slowly walking toward me, with a face red as a tomato. I knew she was not kidding any longer. My heart jumped into my throat.

-I must wash my hands! - I exclaimed!

Hold on! I said a phrase. I said it once, so I must repeat it.

At that instant, falling through the ground and disappearing from this world would be more favorable than dealing with the amount of mental stress I was going through. An explosion happened in my brain; my cheeks were burning, my skinny knees were bending, and noodle-sized arms were shaking uncontrollably. If the house was on fire, I would not notice. All my attention went to one invisible point; all concentration was on remembering the tasks I must complete: “wash, rinse, repeat.”

The adrenaline was pumping through the roof. I felt like a soldier on the battlefield, with undivided focus on the war plan, figuring out how to escape my grandmother and complete my “tasks” all at once. Sweat, dropping from my forehead, burned my darting eyes. But beyond all else, the spot on my little pinky that touched the wall was burning like hell. At least, my brain convinced me that the burning was real.

Out of nowhere, my best friend showed up at the door:

-Let’s play outside- she sounded excited and not bothered.

-Yes! Play with your friend, exclaimed my grandmother, hoping to kick me out of the kitchen - she was getting dangerously close to me. My brain felt trapped, but I was determined to escape, both physically and mentally. Even though I was close to fainting, I had to win this intense battle.

I want to play! I really do! - I screamed in silence, but as loud as I could.

Oh, how much I wished to feel unbothered! Go out and kick a ball with the boys and girls, laugh, talk, and worry about nothing.

It was sunny and warm outside; my friends were loud and happy. They seemed untroubled. They sincerely enjoyed their summer break. And I wanted to enjoy it too! Though after I complete my task, “wash, rinse, repeat.”

My thoughts were louder than the street kids.

- “Wash, rinse, repeat,” I heard an internal whisper, “then you can play.”

-Come on, let's go- my friend was getting impatient

-Please! Go outside!!!- Grandma cried out loud, completely losing her temper. Her large hands were so close to my fragile, shaking body. I had only seconds to act.

- “Wash, rinse, repeat” obsessive thoughts were pulsating in my temples as painfully as migraine headache.

The pinky was burning and tingling, just like torture by a physical flame. I wanted to pause my reality beyond compare, but unfortunately, the “pause” button wasn't available to me.

I unfroze and stormed into the kitchen. I opened the faucet and washed both of my hands. It was my second wash. I used warm water and soap. And the pressure started to relieve. My skin started to cool down, and it seemed like a full-body covering shell of tension began to come off. I took a deep breath.

Then, I opened only cold water. Rinsed my little pinky. Closed the faucet. Opened it again. I rinsed my pinky for the last time and shut the water off completely.

Momentarily, I started noticing life around me. The sun was so bright, the kids' voices on the street were welcoming, and my grandmother was my favorite person in the world! I felt content and satisfied. I was happy! And my short, skinny body became a little girl, ready to enjoy her summer break.

Of course, I knew, the feeling of ease was only a temporary guest.

As life went on, I learned about OCD. And I managed to deal with it. It has been a fight. At times, a bloody war. However, I have been winning. The memories of a captured mind gave me the strength to become a well-trained soldier, brave enough to stand my ground. Those experiences are my mental maps that made me rebellious. I know I am wounded but I am certainly free.