It was my secret. I hid it from everyone: parents, siblings, school mates, and friends. It was mine to grapple with. But what was it? I had no idea.
At the age of eleven, I was trapped in a gas station bathroom in Denison, Texas. The door was stuck. I yelled. I pounded on the door. I screamed. I cried. No one came. The smell was awful. It was a gas station after all. Urine and paper filled the toilet. I squatted making sure no part of my body touched anything. My nerves rattled like castanets.
The walls were closing in on me. My screams became louder, Help me! Help me! My heart was beating so loudly I thought the castanets were in my chest.There was slime and all, and I twisted the door knob again. Nothing, but filth and grime masked the brown paint on the door. I backed into the slime and slid down to the floor. It was gooey, smelly, and gross.
I heard someone turning the door knob from the outside. I stood and my sneakers slipped on the filth. I yelled and heard someone yell back, it was my grandpa. “It’s ok, Susie, I'll get you out.” Grandpa has a sweet voice but could be sarcastic too. The door slid open and I jumped into grandpa’s arms. They were brawny from working in a warehouse.
“What happened? He asked.”
“I don’t know. When I went in, the door shut behind me. After I flushed the toilet and washed my hands, I pulled the knob and the door was locked.”
“Let’s go," grandpa replied.
We walked over to his green Ford Galaxy. Grandma was in the front passenger’s seat. I crawled into the backseat. Mom and my brother were in the backseat too. Grandpa got in the front seat to drive. “What happened?” Mom asked. My brother continued to read his Mad magazine. It certainly didn’t affect him. Grandpa started the car and we were off to my grandparent’s home in Omaha Nebraska.
It was a hot summer day in Denison, Texas and Grandpa’s car did not have air conditioning. We had rolled down all four windows. The car smelled like cigarette smoke. Mom, grandma, and grandpa all smoked.
I glanced out the back window of the Ford Galaxy. Billboards all around. No graffiti. I looked back again, and one more time. My Waltz began, one, two, three.
Everytime I turned around and looked out the window, I would have to do it three times, 1,2,3. What was happening? Read the billboard, read it again, one more time. Anxiety reeled throughout my body. This was new to me.
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) is a mental disorder that is often triggered by a traumatic event. My trigger was being stuck in the gas station bathroom in Texas. This is where the three step dance, my Waltz, 1,2,3, began.
Summer ended and I returned to elementary school. Leaving for school in the early morning, I needed to complete my new rituals of three. I went out the backdoor, passing the messy red bottlebrush tree. I walked to the little white gate and bent over. I touched the dirt on the ground under the white gate, my Waltz, 1,2,3. Three touches and I was good to go. My three touches allowed me the freedom to walk away.
Months later, I switched things up a bit and left my little white gate. Could I really do this? We had a large red porch with red painted steps that drew me in. Now I was out front. Would anyone see me? I counted the stairs, 1,2,3. I touched the red stairs until I felt “complete” or “balanced.” But what did “complete” mean at a young age? What was I needing to “balance?” I was only eleven years old.
My best friend came by one morning to walk to school with me. She saw me touch the red steps.
“Let me do that!” Maddy yelled.
No, I bellowed! No! Don’t touch my red steps.Odd that she didn’t ask why, but I was relieved that she didn’t.
These were my rituals and I didn’t want anyone else doing them. I owned them. Maddy never said another word. We walked to school like nothing had taken place on my red stairs.
***
When I graduated elementary school and transferred to junior high school, my rituals came with me. An added appendage. I never told anyone about my rituals. 1,2,3. My Waltz and nobody else's. I had to read pages in a book three times. One paragraph at a time and if it didn’t feel right, or I didn’t feel balanced in my head, 1.2.3, the Waltz came again, again, and again. It made for long evenings of studying. I was planning on majoring in English in high school.
People with OCD often perform rituals to help relieve stress or anxiety caused by obsessive thoughts. In OCD, a ritual is a behavior or activity driven by a compulsive urge. Repeating these behaviors a certain amount of times, such as counting, sitting, standing, excessive hand washing and more, are performed until things feel just right. Again,what is just right? Touching or moving things in a particular way, such as a television remote pointed forward, or for a specific amount of times, might begin to feel right. My rituals of 1,2,3, my Waltz, did it for me.
Along with these rituals came perfectionism. In high school precision worked for me. From writing essays or solving an algebraic equation, everything was stamped with perfection. I worked hard to earn the almighty “A.” My rituals never left my side or mind, my Waltz, 1,2,3.
It is interesting how I turned to reading as one of my favorite pastimes. We weren’t assigned many novels to read in high school, so I chose my own, All Quiet on the Western Front, Dibs in Search of Self, and Farewell to Arms to name a few. Perhaps it was my comfort zone knowing I was alone with my rituals and dance, 1,2,3, my Waltz and no one would ever see or know my truth.
Would I ever know what this compulsion and ritual of mine was? How does one research something when they have no idea what to research? I repeated things. Was I crazy? Or did others need to have repetition to feel normal, too?
I continued in high school and college with my rituals following me for every degree. One afternoon after college classes were over, for the day, I went home exhausted and sat on our sofa to watch the Oprah Winfrey show. And there it was: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) a disorder where your mind serves its compulsions with repeating rituals over and over again. I was glued to our television with the remote pointed forward, there was finally a name for my rituals and my Waltz, 1,2,3.
The next afternoon I stopped by Barnes and Noble after my classes. Rushing over to the self-help books section and looking for books with the title, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. There were many on the shelf. I pulled one off and slowly opened it, “Do you have rituals, obsessions, and compulsions?” Then you might be suffering from OCD.” Just then someone came around the corner. I quickly put the book back on the shelf. I turned around to make sure it was aligned with the other books. I wondered, who would be the next person, if any, to pull the book off the shelf again. Would the words speak loudly to them as they did to me?
It took me two years to discuss OCD with my new therapist. I was afraid of being diagnosed with a mental disorder. She offered me the title of a book and suggested that I read it, Brain Lock by Jeffrey Schwartz. I bought the book and began reading it as fast as I could. Well, there was one problem, my OCD. I had to reread pages and pages until it felt right in my brain and balanced.1,2,3, my Waltz.
My brain worked a bit differently than others who did not suffer from OCD. My brain would lock in a circular motion when I was suffering with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I had to find a mantra or something that would help me refocus my brain so the circular motion would stop. It was difficult to break. My OCD would engage in this awful circular battle of three.
I finished my college degree in English. I read Shakespeare, Chaucer, and other major writers. I often reread pages, and pages, and pages of these masterpieces trying to subdue my rituals, my Waltz,1,2,3.
One evening, a commercial on television for Paxil caught my attention. A little pink pill that worked on anxiety and OCD. I brought it to my doctor's attention and we decided I should try it. Within eight weeks I began to feel great again and my rituals seemed to stop. I didn’t have to read anything three times again! I taught eighth grade honors English and I graded massive amounts of essays. At last, I thought my Waltz was over, One, two, three. I was feeling like I had my life back.
***
I wondered if OCD could be a friend of mine. I was beginning to miss her at times. She allowed me to complete a bachelor's degree, four master’s degrees, and a career in teaching. What if she came back with a vengeance and I needed her to help me continue my perfectionism?
Many people feel hindered by OCD, however, I was never late for any appointments, completed my homework, and continued my precision, perfectionism. But I liked to think of my OCD as an addition to my productive personality. Perhaps it could be my friend, if it ever found its way back home.
I was thankful to my therapist who helped me understand that Obsessive Compulsive Disorder does not make me a crazy person. It was in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, (DSM). Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is “the presence of obsessions, compulsions, or both; recurrent and persistent thoughts, urges, or impulses that are experienced. At some time during the disturbance, as intrusive and unwanted rituals appear, and in most individuals causes marked anxiety or distress.”
I finally had my reason for doing my one, two, three Waltz.
1,2,3. 1,2,3. 1,2,3.
Would you like to dance with me?
Susan M Davis who lives with OCD, is a lesbian, and retired on January 1, 2020 right before the pandemic. Teaching over 3000 students has been her love and she continues to study with completing her third MFA in 2022. Her wife suffered a ruptured brain aneurysm sixteen years ago and the two got married in the middle of her wife's recovery. They live in Irvine California with their three doggies.
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