This post is by Mim from Digging the Dirt on OCD.
The Willy Crisis
I’ve been struggling to write as I’ve been stuck in a bit of a psychological rut. Rather than delve into the intricacies of a lifetime of OCD or offer up a hopeful message for others, I’m going to be self-indulgent this evening and write a blog post about the last couple of days. A story, if you will. Something a little different. Not too different though, because that would unearth my crippling fear of change. Today, in my head, the way I see it, a dude rubbed his genitals all over my house…
No, I did not give him permission, and no, I was not partaking in some liberating group sex ritual. Let me explain. Let’s start at the beginning.
Phase 1 of The Willy Crisis: The Trigger
Yesterday we began redecorating our entire house, starting with the lounge. It’s been planned for a year or so, I was fully expecting it, and you’d think that as a fully functioning adult, I’d be able to handle it.
At first I was all in, tearing down wallpaper and boxing china ornaments like my weirdly organised little life depended on it. The more that the room was taken apart however, the more my mental state began to unravel. My brain darted back and forth, self-sabotaging my attempts to help. My eyes became altered, and instead of seeing a purge of unwanted furniture, I saw a loss of precious memories. Then came the guilt (if you’ve read my previous post, this is linked directly to Beefgate).
After the guilt had settled itself nice and comfortable in the pit of my stomach, my eyes darted to the dust freeing itself from the walls as the paper was torn off. The sunlight was streaming through the window, which highlighted the plumes of newly emancipated dust in the air that I was breathing and blinking (sunshine is a bit of a catch 22 for me…) The carpet was lifted, furniture was moved, and the room was tipped upside down. I held my own despite all of the chaos, and by the time I settled down for bed, we’d hoovered the floor, bagged the wallpaper and placed the sofa and the TV back where they belonged. Phase 1 was over.
Phase 2 of The Willy Crisis: The Crescendo
I awoke this morning, fresh from a deep sleepy surrender, feeling like a capable badass OCD warrior. This was truly delusional and naive of me however, as I was already triggered. Phase 1 had occurred, and nothing could stop the hurtling and impending plunge into phase 2. I sat down in the newly stripped living room with my cereal and a cup of tea, subconsciously pretending to be your normal average gal, calm and collected, with one slipper clad foot casually bouncing over the other leg. Life was feeling easy breezy man. I was cool as a cucumber. I continued to get on with my day in robot mode, automatically going through the motions… until the knock. The furniture men were here.
I don’t like strangers being in my house that I haven’t invited anyway (I don’t trust the cleanliness of strangers so who knows what pathogens they’re carrying) but this time, THIS TIME I was in my bedroom with the dogs whilst the men brought the furniture in (and this is where the willy part enters the story – I know you’ve all been waiting for it). One of them came upstairs for a wee (the toilet is next to my room, and the wall is very thin… I promise I’m not a creepy toilet listener) and this man…THIS MAN did not wash his hands after peeing. The crescendo had begun with a bang. Willy germs were being scattered around my house like confetti.
The furniture men left and I flung myself unmercifully downstairs. Presenting my admittedly unusual manifestation of rage to my mum and sister, I put on a manly voice and pretended to be a bloke rubbing my willy all over the new furniture, before explaining shrilly what had happened. Go on, imagine this scenario in your head. Let yourself feel it. My good-humoured rage rumbled on for a couple of minutes before I sat on the sofa and cried. Actual tears. Because a man didn’t wash his hands after he peed.
Phase 3 of The Willy Crisis: The Resolution
I don’t really know how to explain this outburst to people, but I’d bet my fellow OCDers get it (BIG UP). After crying for a minute or so on the sofa, in the big old dusty empty room, I apologised to my mum and sister, who rejected my apologies and voiced that it’s difficult to know what to say when reassurance would only feed the OCD. I burned out until I just didn’t have the energy to continue fretting, and my mum reminded me that germs in moderation are beneficial, as they help us to build up immunity. I was then presented with a cup of tea, and The Willy Crisis was over. Until next time.
You can find Mim on Digging the Dirt on OCD.