#ocd things

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OCD is a compulsive disorder which means it’s a compulsion you have to act out on, otherwise this will cause severe mental distress.

Any illness is a spectrum and not everyone will have the same symptoms. In the case of OCD, not everyone will have the same obsessions. Everything I’ve written about OCD is from experience, what I’ve learnt in therapy, or other people’s experiences that they’ve told me about.

In my opinion, it’s one of the most common illnesses that is people often self-diagnose, and misdiagnosed. Please educate yourself on the difference between being a neat freak because you like to be that way, or being a neat freak because grandma died 20 years ago because of you. (If you have OCD you will know exactly what I mean.)

OCD isn’t about being tidy. It’s about making sure things are tidy, because if they aren’t, then your mind will convince you that your uncle will die. Its not about wearing white socks only. It’s not about wearing a specific colour at all, it’s about wearing the colour so you don’t get hit by a car later that day. It’s not about checking if all the plug sockets are turned off. It’s about your mind convincing you that if you don’t check them then count to 10, then you’re going to burn the apartment complex down and the neighbour in apartment 3 will die. It’s about making sure things are spaced out evenly, because if they’re not, then the house will burn down. ere are many other types of OCD, the fic will be focusing on contamination OCD. If you read this and think to yourself ‘why is reader doing this, it makes no sense’ then bravo, that’s what OCD is like. It makes no sense why your brain convinces you to do certain things, but you do it anyway, in a specific way, repeatedly until the OCD is satisfied.

Please don’t self diagnose based on anything said in this fic.

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Contamination OCD, for you was as the name suggests, getting contaminated with bacteria, virus, anything that your mind convinces you isn’t clean. But it’s wasn’t just about the contamination, it was about taking it a step further.

Washing your hands for 15 seconds each time. The recommended is 20 seconds, but your mind prefers 15. So you do 15.

Not eating out in most restaurants. The type of plate they serve food on has to be specific. Why? Because that’s what your OCD tells you and that’s what you do. But you’ve so far managed, and it doesn’t bother you, as long as you’re in control. It bothered other people however, and you reached a point where you started to feel embarrassed about your OCD.

To be loved is not to be forced to change. That’s what you reminded yourself.

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“Morning neighbour” Jack waves you down the hallway, all hot and sweaty and must have just come back from a run.

“Morning Jack” you wave back. “Good workout?”

“Heat doesn’t help with my leg sometimes. But I manage. How have you been?”

“I’m okay” you’ve recently come out of an OCD loop, so you’ve been physically exhausted. Also mentally. “I’m sorry I never got back to you about dinner.”

“Hey don’t stress. As I said, I can cook us a nice dinner one evening if you like.”

Your biggest issue was eating at other people’s homes, and you were running out of excuses to say to him. “How about uh… you come to mine? I can cook…”

“You a good cook?” He teases.

“I think so… you can be the judge of that.” You were worried about him coming into your home and judging it, because it was all sterile, and basic. Less equipment to clean meant less potential for bacteria. But he was going to start taking offence soon on why you can’t have dinner with him, so you knew you had to invite him over. “How about tonight? 7pm?

“I’d love that” he smiles, wiping the sweat beads off his forehead, “see you tonight.”

You shut the door behind you and look around at your apartment. For you, it was exactly what you preferred. But for other people, it may look empty. The surfaces were clear of all clutter, especially the kitchen.

You decide not to make any changes to it or move things around, because if Jack found it weird, then that’s on him. You cooked specific types of foods, with ingredients you bought on the day. Chicken was tricky, but you cooked it a specific type of way, and for a certain amount of time. Red meat was a bit less tricky. Fish was a no. Raw salmon was a definite avoid. People who don’t fear bacteria don’t realise that strawberries for example, are one of the dirtiest foods you can buy at the supermarket. But an avocado? Much cleaner. So your meals were planned around that.

It was just after 6.30pm, and you were prepping dinner when the door bell rings. Jack was waiting by the door, with a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine.

“Hi! You’re… early.”

He looks at his watch, “Shit. I thought we agreed 6.30? Sorry.”

“That’s okay! Come in.” He hands you the flower bouquet, and you hesitantly take it and set it on the dining table, making an immediate mental reminder to throw it away. And also not to eat anywhere near it. “These are beautiful, thank you.”

“Do you need a hand with dinner?”

“Oh it’s okay!” You say quickly, “you can… uh watch.” You couldn’t risk him contaminating anything, because you have no idea what his level of cleanliness would be. And he may not be on an OCD-level of cleanliness.

You pour him a glass of wine, then wash your hands thoroughly before you get back to cooking. At first, Jack doesn’t notice anything different about the way you cook. He doesn’t notice how you handle the raw meat with gloves. Some people do that, right? But what got his attention the most was when you washed your hands multiple times when handling vegetable, then bread, then meat. How you couldn’t keep up with a conversation when you washed them, as if you were counting. Jack then counts: 15 seconds each wash. He doesn’t assume anything and carries on with the conversation.

“Do you like where you work Jack?”

“I… like it most days. It’s rewarding in a sense, but you can’t forget about the trauma most days.”

“How do you deal with blood?”

Jack may have a feeling what you mean. “We wear scrubs, and usually take them off before we leave the hospital so we don’t bring anything home. We also wear a lot of protective equipment.”

“Does it worry you?”

“The contamination?”

You nod, avoiding eye contact. You’re desperate to know more about what he thinks of contamination. Because so far he looks clean.

“I got used to it, but we’re also always sanitising. And with proper equipment… you don’t really catch that much bacteria.”

You smile softly and plate up both of your food.

“Can I use your bathroom? To wash my hands?” Jack sees how your reaction changes once he asks the question. When you start paying attention to how clean people are, you realise how many people don’t wash their hands before eating, prior to touching so many contaminated items.

“First door to the right.”

Once he’s out of the room, you move the flowers over to the area that is now ‘contaminated’ with raw chicken. You scrub your hands again, and set the table up. A minute later, he comes out.

“It’s nice to finally catch up” Jack says as he sits down to eat. “And thank you for cooking, this looks amazing.”

“Of course, anytime. Sorry about before I-“

“Hey as I said, no stress. If you prefer we eat here, then I’m happy with that.”

You murmur shyly, “thank you.”

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Your dinners with Jack became a regular occasion. You found comfort in the lack of questioning about your habits, and how much he respected your routine without looking or sounding judgemental.

It didn’t take him long to figure out that you have contamination OCD, but he never brought it up with you. You washed your hands at least five times, he lost count after that. There was a lack of appliances on the kitchen counter, hand sanitizer scattered all over the apartment. He also saw the binned flowers that he got you — he wasn’t offended in the slightest, and made a mental note to not buy you them anymore so you don’t have to worry about pesticides. Instead, the next time he came over, he brought you something even more special. He walks into your apartment with a bag in his hand. “Hey neighbour, this is for you”

“You didn’t have to get me anything!” He opens the bag for you to reach in, and inside was three boxes of sterile gloves. “For me?”

“I… umm thought you could use them when cooking?” Jack mutters shyly. He doesn’t want to offend you, by indirectly saying he guessed your diagnosis. “We use them in surgery so they’re very very sterile”

“You.. know?”

“About your OCD? Yeah…I hope that’s okay”

“Sorry”

“What for!”

“Did I make you feel uncomfortable?”

“What! No! I thought this… might make it easier for you.”

“I don’t know what to say…” the gift was thoughtful and kind, and you desperately wanted to give him a hug as a thank you. “Did you come here from work?”

“No, I went home showered, got dressed then came here.”

You smile and hesitantly reach over for a hug. “Thank you, I love it.”

Jack embraces your hug, although doesn’t allow his arms to fully touch you. “You’re so welcome. So what’s for dinner?”

“Home made pizzas!”

“Seriously?”

You usually don’t buy pizza from restaurants, something your brain has convinced you that there was a lot of cross contamination. “Do you like pizza?”

“Sweetheart I love all foods. I’ll eat anything!” He makes you feel at ease, being so comfortable with your little habits. And you might have found the friend you’re been looking for this whole time. You don’t let him help with dinner, instead he stands in one corner of the kitchen and watches you work.

“How do you cope with it most days?”

“My OCD? Uh… I just take it day by day.”

“Did you ever do therapy for it?”

“Once but… I couldn’t do the exposure therapy. Too many panic attacks and meltdowns and I eventually got exhausted.”

“Would you do it again?”

Silence follows for a few minutes and Jack doesn’t question it.

“Jack I lost many friends because of my OCD” you say quietly, feeling somewhat embarrassed, “and with exposure therapy, you need a support system to help you get through it. I don’t have that.”

“You do now” Jack says softly, smiling at you once he sees you smile, “whenever you are ready, let me know. I’ll be there.”

“Thank you Jack.. now I’m gonna let you do something which… I don’t let anyone else do. But you’re gonna help me prep the pizza.”

Jack’s face lights up with excitement; this meant that you trust him enough and he couldn’t be happier. “You’re the boss, tell me what you’d like me to do.”

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Your friendship developed beautifully, a mixture of regular hang outs, easy conversation, dinner and a lot of flirting. Jack started bringing you more little things from work, like hospital grade hand sanitiser, more gloves, disinfectant….

But all it took sometimes is for one inconvenience to send you back into your OCD loop, and this time it was catching a cold. Catching a virus or spreading it was one of your worst nightmares, so your OCD told you to scrub. Scrub scrub scrub. You scrubbed your hands over and over again, but your OCD told you it wasn’t good enough. So you scrubbed harder and harder until you cried and scrubbed.

Your anxiety was an at all high. You started to spiral and you felt like there was no saving you.

Jack texted asking you about dinner but you told him you weren’t feeling very well. The next thing you know, he’s knocking on your door.

“You can’t be here” you’re tired, weak, anxious and your hands were red and sore.

“I want to be here.” Jack says softly as he clicks the door shut behind him. “I’m gonna make you soup.”

“But-“

“But you’re gonna tell me exactly how you want me to make it. What to touch and what not to. Okay?”

You shake your head, “I can’t, no I-“

“What’s ticking in your mind? Tell me. How can I help?”

“There’s nothing anyone can do. I feel disgusting. I feel dirty and I keep scrubbing my hands over and over and over-“

“Hey that’s okay, that’s okay don’t panic.” He approaches you slowly, “I’m showered and these are fresh clothes. I have gloves and masks. I’ll start on soup.”

“I don’t know if I can eat it”

“That’s okay, let’s make it, and then we’ll see okay?”

As promised, he spends the day in your kitchen making you food exactly how you’d prepare it. He followed every exact instruction, and he didn’t protest it. You wondered if he’s doing it out of love? Or sympathy?

But Jack was doing it out of love. He was doing it out of love for his friend, who’s struggling and needs help. You manage to eat some of the soup, this time forcing yourself to. Because you needed food and your body was starving.

Jack noticed your hands, the scratch marks that trailed between your fingers all the way up to your elbow. “Is it always this bad?”

“No…” you look at your hands, “I haven’t spiralled this bad in a long time.”

“I’m gonna get you a cream for your hands, and then we’re gonna wrap them up.”

“I don’t know if I can do that…”

“You can because you won’t need to touch anything else. Okay?”

He grabs a cream from his medical bag, along with bandages and gently wraps it around your hand. His touch is slow, calculated and gentle. You found yourself crying at the way he took care of you, and you’re well aware that people often use physical touch to thank someone but you weren’t sure if you could do that yet. He helps you sit on the sofa, and he sits beside you with another bowl of soup, that he helps feed you. “Sleep and rest, this time tomorrow you’ll be better.”

“Thank you Jack, I don’t know how to repay you.”

“You being my friend is enough.”

“I like being your friend. You don’t judge me”

“There’s literally nothing for me to judge. You’re uniquely you, I’m me. I have my own quirks you know…” he teases softly.

“I can’t wait to know more about your quirks”

“But for now… rest and sleep. I’ll stay on the sofa if that’s okay?”

You shift over next to him, he gently wraps an arm around you and you willingly ignore any OCD thoughts as you drift off to sleep.

By the time the morning comes, you wake up feeling much worse, this time your chest is aching and the fever is burning you alive. You called Jack crying on the phone, “I don’t know if it’s my anxiety making me feel this way…. Or something’s wrong”

“Can you get a taxi over here? Do you think you can manage?”

“I uh… I don’t know”

“I’ll come pick you up”

“No, no, you’re busy I’ll uh manage”

“Can you keep me updated? Please? I’ll be waiting for you in triage okay?”

You use up the last bit of energy you have left in you and fight the OCD as you head over to the hospital.

Jack paces around the floor, constantly popping into triage to see if you arrived, but you’re late and not answering your phone.

He never once expects that you’d be brought in via ambulance. “Jack there’s someone in trauma 1 — saying it’s a friend of yours? There’s been an accident.”

Jack bolts over to the room and finds you on the bed, covered in cuts and blood. You’re not crying, but hyperventilating in panic, trying to reach over to scratch your arms but the nurses were pinning them down, trying to work on you.

“I’m here, hey I’m here”

“Jack I did as you said” you whimper, your lips shaking and jaw tight from the anxiety, “but the car it came out of nowhere and the driver wasn’t waking up and-“

“You’re here, with me and we’re gonna make it all better.” He looks at your hands and sees them shaking. “Tell me what you’re feeling”

“There’s something on my hands-“ there was blood on your hand and it was making your skin crawl. “Please make it stop it’s making me spiral please please please”

“Everyone stop what they’re doing please”

Confused faces look at him, about to protest.

“Let go now!” He says, voice stern and authoritative.

“But-“

“Everyone gown up, mask up and change your gloves please. I’m gonna clean up the blood from the hands and we’re gonna start again. No questions asked.”

You’ve been searching for what love meant to you, all these years.

But this, this is what love feels like.

To be loved is to be known.

And to be loved is to not be forced to change