Living with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) can often feel like a burdensome challenge. At times, I find myself wishing for a less invasive ailment—something easily fixed, like excessive earwax or a hammertoe. Yet, as I ponder the inconveniences of those conditions, I find a strange sense of gratitude for my OCD. After all, it’s manageable, and I still get to enjoy a relatively normal life without the need for orthotic footwear.
As I compose this, I’m lounging poolside at a beautiful hotel on the first day of a five-day getaway. The infinity pool, complete with fountains, is stunning. A staff member circulates, offering ice-cold water infused with fresh strawberries and warm towels. I’m immersed in a captivating book and tackling a challenging word puzzle—it feels almost idyllic, except for one thing.
A child’s voice suddenly shatters my peaceful moment: “Help! Mom, Dad, look! Help!” Clearly, this little one has not read The Boy Who Cried Wolf. I glare in annoyance, and then I see it—the child triumphantly displaying an enormous booger. To my horror, he flicks it into the very water where my husband is beckoning me to join him. I dread the thought of wading through that.
I quickly devise a plan to enter the pool from the opposite end, hoping to avoid any germs the child may be harboring. As I perform a hurried and awkward dance around the hot deck, I swim to my husband, who looks surprised.
“Why didn’t you just come in at the stairs?” he asks.
“Oh, I wanted to be stealthy,” I reply.
“Then you might want to reconsider the hot coal dance. Everyone was watching,” he chuckles, wrapping me in his arms as he carries me through the water. Initially, I relish the moment; it’s been ages since we had time alone in the pool. But then I can’t help but scan the water for the booger. Did it drift over here? Is there a current?
“Did you hear me?” he asks.
“No,” I admit, “I was distracted.”
“By the baby?”
No, I think, by my overwhelming desire for a Hazmat suit. I glance around for a toddler to distract me from the snot monster.
“There’s one over there,” my husband points, indicating a diaper-clad toddler whose sagging diaper suggests it’s well-loaded. I try to elevate my head higher on his shoulder, clenching my Kegel muscles in response to the impending threat of E. Coli.
“Can we get out?” I plead.
“Already? It’s so nice,” he replies.
“I know, but I’m burning. I really should get out of the sun.” (And away from this Petri dish of germs.)
With a resigned sigh, he lets me go. He’s learned over the years that reasoning with my OCD is futile; my mind obsesses over germs and health concerns. Even with the help of medication and therapy, the idea of soaking in germs is more than I can handle. I need a nuclear shower after this.
I hurry toward the stairs, splashing out of the pool and racing to my room. I crank the shower to the hottest setting, shampoo twice, and wash my swimsuit with Woolite before hanging it up to dry. Once I collapse onto the bed, I realize I’m utterly exhausted.
Before I can rest, I strip the bed of its comforter and decorative pillows—because who knows how often those are cleaned? I wish for one of those Luminol lights from CSI to check for contamination. As I sit on the bed with my laptop, I notice something odd: my second and third toes are curling slightly…
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In summary, living with OCD can complicate even the simplest pleasures, like enjoying a vacation. The constant battle with intrusive thoughts can overshadow moments of joy, yet I find a way to navigate these challenges, seeking balance and understanding in my experiences.
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