As I reflect on my experience with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), I sometimes find myself feeling a twinge of self-pity. Why couldn’t I be dealing with something less invasive, like an annoying hammertoe? However, as I contemplate that thought, I remind myself that my OCD, while challenging, allows me to lead a relatively normal life—after all, I don’t need to wear special orthotics.
Currently, I find myself lounging at a hotel pool on the first day of a five-day getaway. The resort is beautiful, featuring a grand infinity pool with fountains dancing around it. A staff member walks by, offering refreshing water infused with strawberries and warm towels. I’m attempting to enjoy a captivating book while solving a complex word puzzle; it feels almost idyllic.
Yet, my tranquility is disrupted by the incessant cries of a child: “Help! Mom, Dad, look! Help! Look at me!” Clearly, he’s never heard of the tale The Boy Who Cried Wolf. I cast a disapproving glance in his direction, only to witness him triumphantly extracting a massive booger from his nostril. In that moment, I find myself wishing he would just eat it. But instead, he flicks it into the pool—the very water my husband is beckoning me to join. Now I face the dilemma of navigating through snot to reach him.
To avoid contamination, I decide to enter the pool from the opposite side, performing a frantic dance around the hot deck before slipping into the water behind my husband. He looks at me, puzzled.
“Why didn’t you just enter at the stairs by our chairs?” he asks.
“Oh,” I reply, “I wanted to sneak up on you. Being stealthy, you know?”
“Then maybe you should have reconsidered your hot coal dance. Everyone was staring.”
He embraces me, and for a moment, I relish the intimacy of being alone in the pool. But then, my mind races, searching the water for remnants of The Booger. Is it possible it has drifted to this side?
“Did you hear me?” my husband inquires.
“No,” I respond honestly. “I was distracted.”
“By the baby?”
No, by my overwhelming urge for a Hazmat suit.
“What baby?” My eyes dart around, trying to block the image of that oozing blob of snot.
“Over there,” he points, “playing on the steps.”
I spot the toddler, his sagging diaper hinting at an inevitable mess. I lift my head higher on my husband’s shoulder, attempting to keep my hair neat while I brace myself against the impending germs.
“Can we get out?” I plead.
“Already? It’s lovely here,” he replies.
“I know, but I’m too hot. I should really escape the sun.” And this Petri dish, I think.
With reluctance, my husband—used to my quirks—lets me go. He understands that reasoning with me about my OCD is futile. Despite therapy and medication helping to lessen my compulsions, the thought of soaking in a mix of boogers and germs is too much for me to handle. No amount of hand sanitizer can fix this; I need a full decontamination.
I splash my way toward the stairs farthest from the toddler and make a beeline for the shower, cranking the heat as high as I can tolerate. After washing my swimsuit in Woolite and hanging it to dry, exhaustion washes over me, and I realize I need a nap.
As I prepare my bed, I strip it of the comforter and decorative pillows—those hotel linens never get washed enough for my liking. I inspect the sheets for any signs of contamination. I wish for one of those Luminol lights used in crime scenes to check for cleanliness! Do they sell those on Amazon?
Just then, I notice the slightest curling of my second and third toes…
In Summary
Managing OCD while trying to enjoy a vacation can be incredibly challenging. The constant battle between wanting to relax and the overwhelming thoughts surrounding cleanliness can turn a seemingly perfect getaway into a stressful experience. However, with awareness and the support of loved ones, it’s possible to navigate these situations more smoothly.
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