Don't Mind Me, It's My OCD: Laughing My Way Back from the Edge of Reason

By Breana Ritchie

Don’t Mind Me, It’s My OCD is an engaging portrayal of how author Breana Ritchie navigates her way through daily life amid the roadblocks of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. Despite the serious nature of OCD, Ritchie has woven in a generous sprinkling of wry humor, highlighting her preferred method of coping with this disorder.

From childhood through present day, you are invited on the journey with her and will gain a sense of the anguish, humiliation, and suffering that go hand-in-hand with OCD. You will also delight in the determination, absurdity, and comic relief that uplifted Ritchie into acceptance and a sense of well-being as she continues to co-exist in amicable fashion with this complex disorder.

Whether you have experienced mild to debilitating OCD symptoms, or simply want a deeper insight into the life of an OCD sufferer, you will appreciate the positive, hopeful tone this book presents. What you won’t find is medical jargon, nor will you be inundated with dark passages or saddled with the heaviness that often accompanies this disorder.

Ritchie’s words of wisdom at the end of the book offer her favorite ways to alleviate symptoms, which will resonate long after the book is finished.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Breana Ritchie
• Release date: Jan 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9780692045541

Breana Ritchie

Breana Ritchie has traveled extensively, basking in the thrill of the unknown and the joy of experiencing different cultures. She currently lives in Los Angeles with her adopted rescue dogs. You’ll likely find her huddled under a blanket consuming copious amounts of hazelnut gelato and artisan pizza in front of the telly. Don’t Mind Me, It’s My OCD is her first book.

Book preview

DON’T MIND ME,

IT’S MY OCD

Laughing My Way Back from the

Edge of Reason

Breana Ritchie

Published by Sweetgrass Publishing at Smashwords

Copyright © 2018 by Breana Ritchie

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Visit the author’s website at www.breanaritchie.com

First Edition 2018

ISBN: 978-0-692-04554-1 (ebook)

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For my mom, who made me believe I could soar.

Contents

Introduction

In the Beginning

School Daze

Friends and Family Matters

Love Is a Dangerous Thing

Home, Sweet Home

Doctors, Dentists, and Deadly Diseases

Workplace Woes

Unpopular Modes of Transportation

Discerning Tastes

No Rest(room) for the Weary

The Mean Streets

Driving Me Nuts!

Food for Thought

Social Unawareness

Surviving My Accommodations

Stop Bugging Me!

Misadventures in Shopping

Exercising My Demons

Hands Up!

Smell Ya Later!

The News Is Not My Friend

Weird(er) Bits and Pieces

Getting Dirty, Doggie-Style

Traveling Outside the Box

A Walking Contradiction

What’s the Worst That Could Happen?

Pearls of Wisdom

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Introduction

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

Off, off, off, off, off, off, off.

Lock, lock, lock, lock, lock, lock, lock.

Sound familiar? Does it make you feel happy or sad? Anxious or relieved? Exhausted or invigorated? Calm or distressed? Confined or liberated? A bit of everything?

You are not alone. It is estimated that over two percent of the population suffers from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder in the United States, and it doesn’t discriminate. We are in good company with the likes of Howie Mandell, Cameron Diaz, Lena Dunham, Charlize Theron, Leonardo DiCaprio, and David Beckham who have all been candid about their OCD tendencies. I’m not keen on being a statistic of any kind, but I am definitely a woman with a lot of bizarre habits, rituals, and thoughts ranging from annoying to almost paralyzing. Believing catastrophe is imminent if I’m not on constant alert, and taking measures to prevent serious harm, is a challenging and exhausting way to live. I simply cannot move forward unless certain actions are performed, whether they make sense or not. These obsessions and compulsions showed up unannounced on my doorstep one day and decided they liked me enough to stay. They stick close by my side when I’m stressed or sad, which would make them awesome friends if they weren’t so insidious.

A lot of people use the term OCD loosely, announcing they are afflicted without understanding the disorder, but that doesn’t get under my skin. The term is bandied about so much it makes the disorder seem mainstream, rather than the dark, scary secret we are hesitant to discuss. It’s healthy to illuminate it and engage in thoughtful conversations, but I’ve realized even I laugh in certain situations and say, "I’m so OCD," keeping a sense of humor whenever possible. That doesn’t mean the journey has been easy, to which I’m sure those with debilitating OCD symptoms can attest, and I would never make light of their pain in dealing with these challenges. However, I don’t need to stake my claim in this disorder, so if others want to call dibs on it, I’m happy to share!

If some, or all, of my story resonates and offers you comfort, humor, and a sense of belonging, it will have served its purpose. If I offend your sensibilities with my unique behavior, remember—it’s not you, it’s me!

In the Beginning

I can’t pinpoint exactly when it all began, but I can evoke clear memories of my budding obsession with germs and order and feeling uncomfortable in my skin. Looking back with a proper perspective, I’ve realized my home life was stressful and scary at times due to my alcoholic father who was the source of unrelenting tension and turmoil. He stumbled in late each evening—after knocking back untold beers with his drinking buddies to cap off a long workday—but those few hours in his presence felt like an eternity. It didn’t take long to conclude that the screamfests, flying dishes, and threats of divorce were jeopardizing my entire world and sense of security. Coming home one day to a police car in the driveway left me breathless and fearing the worst, but it was just another round in their endless bout of hurled obscenities, food, and accusations. It seemed necessary to create a sanitized environment for myself, which should have provided a semblance of control in an otherwise uncontrollable world, but instead spawned a neurotic child.

The fateful day my mother kicked my father out brought us welcome relief from the pandemonium, but a vivid memory of him stuck with me long afterward. He had turned to walk out the door for the final time and neglected to hug me goodbye or, at the bare minimum, acknowledge the sad little girl in the corner, eyes teary and wide as saucers, before his abrupt departure. This devastating sense of abandonment was confusing since I had no emotional connection to this man by any stretch of the imagination. His idea of bonding was encouraging me to pull his finger so he could grab my hand and fart on it with glee; tossing grapes into my mouth like a trained seal; and watching the odd episode of The Streets of San Francisco, Columbo, or Kojak together. I clung to these moments of frivolity, for soon his dominant alter ego would arrive on the scene and abscond with my homework. Why? Because his boorish demands to prepare him a late-night salad with a side shot of liquor did not line up with my goals for the evening.

Deception was second nature to this philanderer who consorted with floozies and discovered the meaning of life in the bottom of his whiskey bottle. My bedroom door sat lopsided on broken hinges after his clumsy kick to gain access to my mother; she sought refuge in my room whenever he thundered through the house in a cloud of cheap perfume and cherry brandy. He knew nothing of her evacuation plan to leap out the ground-floor window, and she was sipping coffee at our next-door neighbor’s house before his head poked through—Jack Nicholson-style.

He’s a good provider, my mother felt obliged to say, but her weary expression belied her attempts to defend his pathetic shortcomings as a father. He did supply funds for the necessities in life, but for a fun-filled day at the local fair he would hold a couple of bucks hostage until we wheedled him into releasing them into our eager, outstretched palms. Thanks, Dad. We’ll enjoy sharing our pint-sized cotton candy while everyone else is having a blast on the rides and playing silly games to win the crappy but coveted prizes. Our beloved mother always came to the rescue, which allowed us to have as normal a childhood as she could manage. All we had to do was stand guard while she slid a few crisp twenty-dollar bills out of his metal cash box and into her pocket, after he had counted it each evening. Timing was everything in our household. It didn’t work out so well for me after his ousting, because I was sent to fetch the monthly child support checks. I was subjected to the spectacle of a grown man three sheets to the wind—blubbering into his booze-laced coffee—and wished I could twitch my nose like Samantha in Bewitched and magically disappear.

It took years to understand I wasn’t a freak—I merely handled situations in a different manner than other individuals. Once I realized there were others who counted, and triple-checked, and would rather die than touch something deemed unsanitary, the relief washed over me in soothing waves.

Not knowing that at the time, however, meant I was besieged with misery and spent an inordinate amount of my waking life sweeping away imaginary dirt, scrutinizing my surroundings, and protecting my belongings with unexpected ferocity. Doorknobs and light switches made me twitchy. Getting into bed at night was an ordeal because I knew unwanted things were in there, though I couldn’t see them. My hands attacked these invisible invaders, drowning my fear with fury as I swept them away. The minutes ticked by, keeping time with my methodical strokes until I became too tired to continue. I lined up my stuffed animals according to their sturdiness, tucking in stray legs, arms, or tails hanging over the edge of the bed. Exposed limbs aggravated me to the point of sleeplessness. I hated leaving this safe zone during the night—if I disturbed the hideous creature skulking under my bed, it would surely seize my ankles with its bony fingers and that would be a nightmare from which I’d never awake. Instead, I lay frozen in my toasty sheets, ignoring my own pep talk about surviving the few steps to the bathroom. I was a mama bear around my precious babies, but if I’m being honest, I might have sacrificed one to save myself. I’m glad I never had to learn what kind of person I would be in that situation.

My mother couldn’t resist the allure of auction sales where she went on the prowl for antique furniture, usually with me in tow. Wading through musty cast-offs from a dead person’s estate gave me the creeps. She was over the moon after finding an old-fashioned dresser with dark, knotted wood and a faded mirror for my room, but I despised it. I had grown tired of my prissy white furniture and frilly canopy bed, but this replacement was repulsive and depressing. I felt uneasy putting my clothes in the drawers, which had to contain the ghosts of ancient bugs. I should have embraced this dresser as it reflected my escalating dark moods, but my smile was irrepressible when I was able to pawn it off on someone else’s unfortunate child.

Our creepy, dirt-floor cellar was the harbinger of haunting dreams when our arachnophobic mother coerced us to take turns going down there to get potatoes for dinner. What did she have against rice? Our father’s contribution was to dig them up from the garden and fill the earthy, mud-caked box in the cellar, but he was off somewhere enjoying a libation or two whenever we needed to retrieve them. It was a slow descent into hell. She would stand at the top of the rickety wooden stairs whispering encouragement, but I knew, with each footfall, I was one step closer to death. The air was dank and suffocating and when I dared to peek through my fingers, I could see the soulless eyes of albino creatures watching me pass. They had nothing but time down there to spin their gossamer traps across my path, the delicate strands against my skin creating surging hysteria. That cellar door should have been cemented shut, trapping the demons forever, but instead we were offered up for habitual sacrifice—all for a lousy nightshade vegetable. I’m lucky to be telling the tale.

I became obsessed with avoiding spiders and bugs and worms and slugs. It didn’t help that I was watching far too many macabre B-movies featuring tarantulas, killer ants, bees, and snakes. Strolling barefoot through lush, dew-kissed grass had me on cloud nine until the day gelatinous slugs attached themselves to my feet. They sucked out my joy and I never indulged in that verdant oasis again. After heavy rains, long squiggly worms blanketed the sidewalks around our house in a carpet of slime. Our dog chose those times to whine for a potty break and my frantic efforts not to step on any were fruitless. I knew they had covert plans to leap off the pavement and slither up my legs, and I couldn’t wait to be back in the safety of my home. Spiders were everywhere and they terrified me. My entire family was deathly afraid and because no one wanted to get close enough to kill them, they roamed free, striking fear in our hearts. I flicked pinhead-sized ones off the window screen so they wouldn’t sneak inside and have a sudden growth spurt. I’ll never forget watching an episode of Night Gallery entitled A Fear of Spiders where a tiny spider in the sink grew to enormous proportions. One day, I found one lying in wait in the bathtub when I was preparing to take a shower. I grabbed a bottle of shampoo, let out an ear-piercing wail, and proceeded to savagely beat that poor harmless spider to death. My mother catapulted through the door, frightened I was being attacked, but dissolved into laughter upon witnessing the tail end of my murderous rampage. I read that spiders can crawl in your mouth while you’re sleeping and, after that tidbit, I’ve never been able to drift off without thoroughly checking the walls and ceilings. I would sleep with one eye open if I wasn’t petrified a spider would crawl in there too.

The glaring cracks in the sidewalk began to vie for my attention in a detrimental way, so I avoided them whenever possible. It wasn’t that I worried about breaking my mother’s back, but