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© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
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The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, twinkle toes.
Fun With OCD 28-Dec-2004 8:21 p.m.
When I was a kid, I had this imaginary horse. And apparently I wasn't particularly needy in my imaginings of my pet, because the horse was an imaginary stick horse. You know the kind: the long stick with a horsey head on the top. At least I think it was a stick horse. I guess it could have been a really thin pony, which leaves me to wonder why the hell I thought up a horse and didn't bother to feed the poor dear. Anyway, I'd have to mount the horse upon getting up from a chair and then trot through the house to my destination. I did this for quite some time, although I can't give either one of us the aggregate amount of time spent on this fantasy. It was fun though. The reason I've brought it up is because I rode my imaginary horse around the house a few minutes ago and wore myself right bloody out.
I had severe Obsessive Compulsive Disorder as a kid. Or OCD, for fun. I mean for short. Sorry, it was just so much fun that it's hard not to have the word fun take over when talking about OCD. Ah, the sweetness of having to hold my shirts by the shoulders and twirl them into thin snakes, forward then back, over and over again before putting them on. As many times as it took on any particular day. The delight in having to touch the light switch thirteen, maybe fifty-four times before getting into bed, then having to get back out of bed to touch it three hundred more times. I nearly washed my hands right off my body. My favourite part, and the part I'm sure is most memorable for people who knew me in elementary school, was the licking of the hands. Oh, yeah. In high school I was in an English class with a girl I had been friends with way back.
"Remember when you used to lick your hands and wipe them on your butt? You always had a wet spot on your ass."
Hey, it's fun to be me. Did I mention that? It had started out with just the licking of my thumbs. They always felt dry, probably from washing the holy shit out of them. So, I'd lick them to moisten them up a bit. And then it escalated into madness which soon involved the entire palms. Where else was I supposed to wipe the excess wetness? That's right—on my butt. It never occurred to me there might be patches of spitty goodness back there. But I was a little kid, and little kids aren't worried about what they look like. Well, not back then, anyway. Now they're having their hair bleached at four years old and wearing hooker attire to school, bless their hearts. I didn't care. All that concerned me was keeping the world a-spinnin' and making sure my loved ones were safe.
And that is exactly what I was doing. I believed that by performing these duties, I was controlling the outcome of things. And if something did occur that I had worked so hard to prevent, it meant I had not worked hard enough. My family didn't know what to think of me. Family outings were nice, but I was always the last person out of the house. Mom would wait on the porch while I touched this and counted that, moved a knickknack to a more favourable spot so as not to upset the balance, etc. Then there were the issues with my bladder, constantly thinking it was full when it was indeed empty. One day I spent hours on the toilet in my parents' bathroom. I was absolutely certain I would not be able to get up for fear of having to pee wildly the moment I walked away from the toilet. I was devastated. I pictured my whole life spent in that small bathroom, just sitting there, waiting. After a considerable amount of time, my mom and brother went outside and began shooting some hoops, obviously in an attempt to lure me outside because I loved to play basketball. My brother had taught me how to do a granny shot, and I had practiced until I could make a shot almost every time. Their plan worked, thankfully. I've always thought it was brilliant.
None of the kids at school ever said anything to me about my bizarre eccentricities. I remember my mom being fairly patient, but sometimes telling me to stop it. Then came the day when my family decided the best way to deal with it was to laugh at me each time they saw me wrapped up in my own private hell.
"Oh, look, Linda's playing her games again," they'd say, with forced laughter.
Games, you ignorant sluts? (If you're not old enough to remember the original Saturday Night Live episodes, you won't remember "Jane, you ignorant slut!") I know this was a fear-based idea—I even sensed it then—but how ungrateful can you get? I was keeping your asses alive, I'll have you know. For without my "games" you would have been eaten by Big Foot (otherwise known as Sasquatch), stung to death by African killer bees, murdered by a lunatic, killed by oncoming traffic—you name it, I saved you from it. And just where was my thanks? God, if only those "games" worked. I could have changed the world.
The OCD has changed over the years. For instance, I obsessed on my teeth for more than a year recently. I'm talking serious obsession. I was convinced there was something wrong with them (there isn't) and that their imagined unfortunate state would prevent me from ever being happy or accomplishing certain goals. I fuck with myself on an moment to moment basis. It keeps me on my toes, very much like a fancy ballerina.
I should mention before leaving that topic that there was little known about OCD when I was a kid. My mom did take me in to see my pediatrician, who wanted to put me on Ritalin, but mom said a hearty no to that, thank somebody holy. Didn't want it to seem as if I was saying my family didn't care. They simply didn't understand or know what to do about it.
I just now performed a brief little ballet act for someone whose back was turned to me whilst they ate a Napoleon pastry. Ever had one of those pastries? Flaky, custardy goodness, I tell you. I don't blame them, really, for being too wrapped up in that dessert to pay attention to my performance. Maybe, if a certain party is lucky, there will be a repeat performance later this evening. Just maybe.
Oh! For Christmas I received, in addition to other fine gifts, some DVDs for my glorious collection. Since you asked, I shall list them for you. You didn't ask, by the way.
Napoleon Dynamite Shaun Of The Dead Living In Oblivion Groundhog Day
Have you seen Napoleon Dynamite? I loved this movie probably more than is humanly possible. My favourite line: "She left her crap on my porch." I was the only one in the theatre who let out a Witchypoo howl of laughter when I heard that, and it was hard to stop. I love the word crap so, so very much. It sneaks up and tickles the ever-loving toots out of me. It tickles me even more when it is used as a verb. I remember my mom saying stuff like, "Somebody's dog crapped on the lawn again," and getting such a monumental kick out of it. Hey, somebody has to enjoy it.
Well, I'm off to have an evening and quite possibly perform another dance routine. I am not a dancer, but I'll be damned if I am not a legend in my living room, and sometimes even in my dining room. Thanks for reading.
Linda
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