My (Very) Long COVID Experience — Pre-existing Conditions
OCD, why do you torment me?
I recently became aware of the extent of my obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), which was made worse by the pandemic years. Yes, that lovely time when we wore masks when it wasn’t Halloween, visited seven different stores to find one roll of toilet paper, and debated the merits of herd immunity vs. vaccination while our president told us to inject bleach into our veins. Those were the days.
A lot of those days were spent inside. In case you can’t imagine how being stuck inside is a nightmare for someone with OCD, picture moving into a new house with flat, white paint on all the walls and working from home full time. Now imagine that you have a boring job. I certainly did in 2020. Watching already dry paint didn’t seem so boring by comparison, so my eyes inevitably wandered away from one of many dry screens and settled on a mark or imperfection on one of those white walls.
Maybe it was a mark from a picture frame I had hung (crookedly) the weekend before. Maybe it was the result of an angry outburst where I couldn’t help but throw whatever (inexpensive and not-too-heavy) object happened to be at hand. Maybe it was almost nothing at all. Regardless, I would find myself staring at it as if it were the only thing that mattered.
If you’re as obsessive and compulsive as I am, you won’t stop at staring: You’ll want to touch it with your hand — maybe lick your finger first and try to rub it away. When that doesn’t work (it almost never does), you push whatever you’re working on aside — deadlines be damned — and go find your trusty “magic” eraser.
Assuming you can find it (I usually keep it under the kitchen sink — FYI), it will probably only make the problem worse by spreading the mark around. Now, instead of a centimeter-long pencil mark, or a scratch that resembles one, you’re left with several inches of ugly-gray discoloration. At this point, if you’re anything like me, you’ll look for a bucket and return with soapy water and a sponge. Your wife will protest, but the madness will prevail. She might even threaten to leave you, but the madness will prevail.
It should go without saying that soapy water won’t work either — not on flat paint at least.
If any part of this story is familiar, I regret to inform you that you’re likely suffering from OCD. It can be funny, but it’s not a joke.
If I had to define it in a few words, I would call it a fixation on details that are mostly inconsequential. I have to admit that it really doesn’t matter whether there’s a coaster between my drink and the (cheap) coffee table. It also doesn’t matter whether my dining room chairs are arranged in such a way that the space is maximized when they’re not in use. And I can’t think of one goddam reason why things I never use need to be in exactly the same place they’ve always been or why I have to squeeze every last glob of toothpaste out of the tube before replacing it— I just can’t. It makes no sense. It’s organized madness but madness nonetheless.
But what does all this have to do with long COVID? I’m no expert on either disorder, but my assumption is my obsessive mind is trying to compensate for my body’s inability to function normally. For example, when my symptoms are mild, my obsessive mind pushes me to get important things done — knowing damn well that I could be bedridden (and, thus, rendered useless) the next day. It bullies me into maximizing whatever energy I have to spare. It has nothing but disdain for laziness.
My obsessive mind is the part of me that wants to control what it can control. No part of me — no matter how upbeat — can make doctors find a cure or convince the other (more cynical) parts of me that life is somehow fair. Thus, I’m stuck with the Sisyphean task of rearranging my spice drawer so that each spice fits perfectly in place and stays there regardless of what the recipe demands.
When the hunt for meaning comes up empty, I hunt for a loose sock that got lost somewhere between the dryer and my bedroom — because nothing stresses me out more than a lonely, isolated sock. Finding it brings momentary joy, and momentary joy is better than emptiness.
This insight potentially stretches far beyond OCD. Maybe all positive emotions are the result of a game we play with ourselves — better to win on our own silly terms than continue to lose on someone else’s. Maybe the only reality is the one we construct. I don’t know, and I’m not interested in being a philosopher — even though they all tend to focus heavily on details that most people ignore. What I do know is my obsessive mind rarely grants me a moment’s peace unless it’s distracted by alcohol, sex, or a delicious meal. I’m sure this is exacerbated by my long COVID symptoms, but I doubt only those with a chronic (physical) illness can relate. I also doubt that the obsessions and compulsions will end with the long COVID symptoms.
Perhaps madness is the new normal — and that I am, regrettably, a mere extension of it.
