A 'Dear John' Letter to My OCD

Dear OCD

It's over. I quit.

When you moved in over two decades ago, I thought living with you might be a blast; a wild ride with a quirky bedfellow. I soon realised what a selfish, energy-sapping bastard you are.

Many people know OCD as Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but I got to see what that acronym really means; One Cruel Dictator.

You demand the world from me, but you give little in return. Oh, I've occasionally regaled women in bars with tales of the wacko things you make me do, and I once earned hard cash from an article I wrote about you, but those were sporadic bursts of light relief; occasional flowers in a field of weeds.

And yet, it all stemmed from innocuous beginnings. Giving the plates a double rinse is hardly a time-consuming exercise, and I dare say it's hygienically sound, but that was just entry-level stuff; a dipping of the toe to test the water.

Over time, you conditioned me into believing that a great disaster would befall me if I put my left shoe on first, that I'd choke to death if I drank tea from a cup marked coffee, and that if I sliced a mushroom into thirteen pieces, it would immediately become toxic. Aversion has become second nature, to the extent I'm no longer even aware of your little quirks like order and counting.

Thanks to you, I do more counting than the Sesame Street vampire. When out walking, I'll randomly start counting my steps. I count the number of turns of the key it takes to open a can of beans, and the number of down strokes when grating a carrot (the last one was 106 if you're interested). I count the number of cuts when chopping or slicing vegetables, and all the time I avoid thirteen like it's a poop in the pool.

Because, dear OCD, one of the few positive events to come from your intrusion into my life is that you taught me a new word: triskaidekaphobia. I don't know what onlookers think when I step over the thirteenth stair in a flight, but my knees curse your name every time.

The cursing is pointless though, because you're as thick-skinned as an armadillo wearing George Costanza's puffy coat, and you're happily oblivious to any insults I hurl your way.

But what does break through your defences; what cuts you to the bone, is seeing me getting on in life. That hurts you bad so you set out to ruin things for me every time.

Melvin Udall

I was quite sweet on Wendy, the waitress from Sylvester's, and we'd been out on three pleasant dates. But then you had me go full Melvin Udall on her unsuspecting ass in a busy restaurant, and another one bit the dust.

I'd had a heated exchange with the waiter when he showed us to table thirteen, but, after I greased his palm, he relocated us to table seven. When the food arrived, I counted thirteen olives on my pizza, so while Wendy placed her reading glasses back in her bag, I quickly flicked one of the olives clean off the crust to avoid the dreaded number. Unfortunately, the munchable missile ricocheted off the carafe and hit Wendy above the eye. She looked shocked, and a little vexed at having been assaulted right out of the blue, and for the rest of the evening, she wore a splash of pizza sauce above her left eyebrow. Her demeanour thenceforth told me that all was not well with our fledgling relationship.

But, to her credit, she toughed it out, despite being convinced she was sharing a table with Creepy McCreep from Creepsville, who'd sooner start a food fight than engage in romantic discourse. The spark had been extinguished, and immediately after the tiramisu, she was off like a cat with a firecracker tied to its tail, and I never heard from her again. What a stellar friend you've been, old buddy.

You even impinge on my life when I'm at work, causing me embarrassment before my colleagues. As a school caretaker, I occasionally have to move the students' bikes from the secure lock-up into the yard, to be collected at the end of the school day. The other caretakers spread the bikes out all over the yard, but I do things differently. On your insistence, I place the bikes facing the same way in a single row. People watch from windows, thinking I'm some kind of nut as I meticulously lay the bikes out in a tight, neat line like a latter-day General Dreedle from Catch 22, who was obsessed with seeing "a nice, tight bombing pattern on those aerial photographs."

My Epiphany

But then, one day my head was turned. I bought an electric wall-mounted can opener that does the whole job in a single rotation. Never again would I count the turns when opening my baked beans. I'd tasted freedom, and that spring of hope grew into a torrent of defiance.

You see, since my epiphany with the can opener, I've not been entirely faithful to you. When I put the bikes out on Friday, I didn't lay them out in the orderly line you like to see but instead, I spread them out at all angles. By the time I'd finished, my handiwork resembled a pile-up on the Tour de France, and it was a joy to behold. Taking my new-found bravado even further, I put my left shoe on first this morning, and guess what, nothing happ