A Dragon Lives Inside Me
“Close the curtains.”
“Not that way, the bottom of the curtains are bent.”
“Fix the bottom of the curtains and make them flat on the carpet. Please fix them!”
That is the first time I can remember having this strange feeling in my chest, the thought that the white sheer curtains on my parents side bedroom window had to be closed a certain way. They had to rest exactly how I described it or that horrific feeling just wouldn’t leave.
I was about 8 years old. And that was just the beginning.
I needed to be in control, but was seemingly out of control, and that overwhelming feeling in my chest gradually moved straight to my heart. Ta dum, ta dum, tadum tadum, tadum. Faster and faster until the curtains were flat against the pink shag carpet.
A dragon lives inside me. We are roommates. Magical thinking comes along with his rent. Accepting him as part of my being is no different than accepting my height and weight, the color of my hair, my ethnicity, or my career path.
He is me and I am he.
I don’t remember thinking there was anything strange about making sure that I had to see my father’s full profile while he was driving the car that necessitated my bending and twisting in the backseat to get the right angle. Nor did I think it odd to repeat words a specific number of times in my head, the first one being “Really Riley” from a comic strip of that name that was published in the local newspaper on Sundays.
Then another and another and yet another fixation would come full force and with that came the shocking understanding that not everyone in my Junior High School class continually touched the 4 corners of their desk or tapped the top of their head when a frightening thought emerged.
As I matured, I began to understand the enormity of my situation.
Slowly I began to realize the truth.
The truth being that having these thoughts, demands, and actions served as protection.
I believed that with every ounce of my being.
The dragon was in me to protect the entire world but clearly, even as a child, I didn’t think that was feasible. So I zeroed in closer and closer until it was just me and my immediate family. Aunts, cousins, friends, and grandparents were not included in my circle of protection. I made that decision based on the fact that surely they, too, have mandates in place for their own family’s armor.
Slowly, but diligently, the dragon continued to raise his thorny green head and extend his forever-long fire-encased tongue permanently into my psyche. There was no exit plan. The list was so long. So long now. There was no explanation to offer to my first year college roommate as to why I continually lock and relock our door or why I have to touch the ‘K” letter on her typewriter when I pass her desk, or why I do this or that.
As fate would have it, my major at the university was psychology. Dr. Kim, an elderly gentle-spirited man, walked into the freshman classroom auditorium and ever so softly explained his philosophy on the mind, on religion, and, here it comes, on magical thinking. I clearly found my professor soul-connection. I read every page of the Psychology 101 assigned book even when only chapters 2–7 were required. Mind you, I never actually had a one-on-one conversation with Dr. Kim, yet his words that semester, those sweet three months every Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings, filled my mind with gentle understanding of my obsessions.
Sorry to say, this is not the end of a short story like one by Nicholas Sparks where everything comes together in a predictable way. Not surprisingly, my dragon’s dictums grew larger, more precise and more intense with the births of my children. The dragon prompted me to control the world around them that was seemingly filled with untold danger. What was still surprising to me, even as an adult, wasn’t the fact that I felt this way, but the idea that not every parent would be doing the same to protect their precious babies.
A myriad of new and intense compulsions continued to emerge. The weird feeling in my chest became more present, interfering with my thoughts too often. Yet, like someone with ADHD, depression, or a myriad of other emotional challenges, I was able to integrate this into my life, have marriages, raise a family, get my degree, and have treasured friends. Most of my peers, colleagues, and extended family either didn’t notice, didn’t care, or were (and still are) too busy in their own universes to comment.
Early on, however, my daughter asked me why I do certain things. When she, too, graduated college as a psychology major she told me that perhaps I do what I do to gain control and minimize my fears. The difference, she pointed out, between normal and pathological anxiety. Smart cookie. Interestingly, my son also graduated with his Master’s Degree in psychology and is currently a talented therapist specializing in anxiety. No coincidences here.
So I live my life. I look up to where the wall and the ceiling meet, I adjust curtains, I say words over and over in my head, and these are just the a snippet of my OCD. That weird feeling in my chest does go away more quickly these days and the tapping tends to resolve in a few seconds rather than in minutes. Or hours.
My grandchildren have not caught on yet nor have they asked questions about what they undoubtedly have observed. When they do ask, I will be honest and I will tell them, “I slay dragons.”
