The Pleasures of Pure OCD

What It’s Like to Have Your Mind Play Tricks on You

I like to clean on the weekends. It is almost sadistic to think that a chore can be a source of almost erotic pleasure, once I finish it to completion. Seeing a well organized room is one of my best sources of contentment. Even if, somehow, the frames never seem to hang right, and the candle holders on the shelf never seem to align right. Even so, I know I don’t have OCD.

I tell myself I’ve seen true OCD- the way it’s portrayed in the media, with people constantly flicking lights on and off in hopes it will ward off death. Or with people who must clean toilets 30 times in a row in fear that they will be engulfed by some sort of unknown parasite that lingers on the toilet seats. And also in my father, who could never hold down a job and instead worked being self employed and arranging candies in orderly rows, selling them as a street vendor to tourists in Los Angeles.

Yes, I see the portrayal of OCD and the compulsions that accompany it, and I tell myself that though I am neat and organized, I don’t have OCD as bad as the next chap. I tell myself this until one day, I think to myself: