Half Life - 20 - obsession
March 12th, 2021
The unblessed and unanointed can fail to see the small mark on the stairs, the single shirt discarded on the floor, or cups abandoned in the sink left to make their own way into the dishwasher sitting, expectantly, right next to it. Those with the gift can, however, help others see the reality of the rampant chaos which has been let loose in the house. A few hours of hard labour work miracles and there are wonderful rewards at the end, including guilt-free PS4 and Switch playing, and OCD enabled dinners.
Lockdown, cancer boredom, and frustration at the mental and physical imprisonment partial disablement brings were never going to help. A fourth day of not leaving the house at all, not even to wander into the soggy brown garden, increased the pressure to boiling-over point. OCD’s magnifying glass transforms the small into the enormous, the insignificant to the vital, and the pointless into the essential. Years of working hard to supress and manage it vanished in a puff of irrationality, and their planned lazy Saturday disintegrated, as it burst like an erupting domestic volcano on the unsuspecting Boys, Wife, and JJ the dog.
The early warning tremors had been picked up at four in the morning with her question asking why I was awake and discovering the objects dominating my mind were rapidly building into a list of essential house jobs. The Wife’s groan of “oh no” hinted that she knew what was likely to happen, as she rolled over knowing she was going to need all the sleep she could get in order to draw on her deep reserves of mediation and negotiation skills.
Right from the start, Boris’s three experiments in national claustrophobia were unlikely to help keep a lid on the OCD. Gradually, small things start to shout, then, like mobile phones and small children when ignored, they scream louder and louder until dealt with. As the only one able to hear the wailing of the undone tasks, I reluctantly took on the role of dictator-in-chief. Before breakfast was even assembled the vital list had been committed to paper, an essential step for all true believers in the power of obsessiveness, and the discussion about who was going to do what was well underway. Pleading looks from The Boys to The Wife achieved nothing. Giving in to the inevitable, they reached for their phones to cancel the on-line gaming appointments they had optimistically set up with their friends for the day.
These occasional lapses in keeping the OCD tiger in its cage should not overshadow the improvements made over the years, supported by The Wife’s gentle coaching. Cans no longer need to be stacked with their own kind, tinned tomatoes are allowed to keep company with the chickpeas, and the soups mix with the kidney beans without fear of being forced back into strict food-type segregation. Bottles are forgiven for not being properly lined up and ready for inspection, and the brandy and the whisky are now allowed to party with the sherry and madeira. Mugs and cups sit contentedly out of height order in celebration of their individuality. Plates, bowls, and glasses still have to live with their own kind, but mixing them up would, clearly, be ridiculous and against nature.
Putting shoulders to the wheel to appease the paternal obsessive, plus a deep desire to get it over with, generated results that make a compulsive glow with inner peace and contentment. JJ found herself washed, dried, brushed, gloriously fluffy, and several pantones lighter before her slow-moving brain could compute what was happening to her. Her bedding got a long overdue visit to the washing machine and dried easily in time for the evening – singlehandedly changing the smell in parts of the house to such an extent that The Wife agreed my motivation may not have been entirely in my mind. Carpets were not just vacuumed by Older Boy but cleaned too, providing a life-skill he will, I am sure, thank me for forever, as with the detailed instructions on how to wash and dry the sofa cushion covers the two of them had worked so hard to alter from their original colour to a uniform greasy grey. Younger Boy’s joy at committing acts of violence against all forms of cushion and pillow was redirected successfully, resulting in plump and inviting places to sit, whenever sitting down was going to be allowed again. Clothes found hangers, school blazers and shirts discovered that the empty spaces inside the wardrobes were the perfect size for them, and single screwed-up sports socks were dug out of their hiding places under beds and reunited with their partners in a long overdue cleaning frenzy. The list ticked on so quickly that by mid-afternoon The Boys had escaped the grips of the compulsive tornado and were checking to see if any of their friends were still playing on-line.
OCD is a kind and generous master and gives as well as making demands on those who toil under its spell. Unable to do many of the more physical tasks, the promise of a dinner to reward a day of industry had to be fulfilled. Japanese cuisine, a way of eating developed over centuries by an entire nation of obsessive compulsives, was the challenge and, as the house changed around me, I chopped, measured, weighed, timed, simmered, cooled sauces, and prepared. The roasted salmon with sweet soy on a bed of Japanese rice with two colours of sesame seeds, accompanied by home-made pickles and a side salad laced with a sesame dressing, repaid the dedication put into creating it. Worthy of the best Japanese restaurant – according to the two resident junior food critics – the value of obsessiveness finally gained the recognition it deserves in their domestic chore exhausted eyes. Forgiveness came at the end of the day, in a sweet smelling, ordered, house where every OCD itch had, for the time being, been scratched. After dinner, they were even allowed back on the sofa.
Sunday became the lazy day and, such is the way with OCD, despite the inevitable creep back of tiny drops of chaos, the obsessive voices stayed silent as did the annoying and demanding parent. Not even the softest request for room tidying was issued and preparations for the coming school week were suggestions put forward, diplomatically, by the non-obsessive and more popular parent. Tolerance and understanding of the affliction which had dominated their Saturday grew and, by bedtime the day after the OCD explosion, the drama was forgotten. Harmony and happiness returned combining comfortingly with the tidy, clean, organised world around us. The true value of OCD had, yet again, proved its worth, even if mentioning it out loud will need to be carefully avoided for some weeks to come.
Ha! That's what happens when it's not a Six Nations weekend. Must say your new persona as Sheldon Cooper has a certain ring to it!! :D
Had to google OCD- just learnt a new piece of vocabulary, could use a mild dose this weekend ;-)