Interlude Six—OCD: Overly Concerned with Dirt

OCD stands for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

It’s a common trait among co-dependents.

That’s not to say that anyone who feels more comfortable with neatness and order is co-dependent, but there is a line that is crossed at some point for those who are.

Like me.

Out of six boys, I got two who are neat freaks. They’re easily irritated with their messier siblings and seem to relax when I spend the day cleaning.

Two out of six doesn’t sound like good odds, but I take into account that they are boys, after all, so I think I’m golden.

The older of the two often goes through the house announcing messes as if he’s announcing a boxing match.

Cheetos! In. My. Sock!

I got out of bed like a fruit roll-up this morning. I hate the heat!

What the…? Popsicles in the toilet and toilet paper in the sink?! Who lives here?

The younger one never says a word. But I’m constantly on the hunt for items he’s stowed away to keep our paths clear. And those items are often things I need on a daily basis…car keys, soap and the many, many shoes that pile in odd corners.

Of course, then the older one would have his say.

My shoes! There they are again…gone!

I don’t think they’re as bad as I was, but I know they watched me all those years obsessing over cleanliness. So I try to keep an eye out if their stress level rises, and get them into the kitchen to make something that requires intense messiness. Desensitization therapy or something like that.

My mother used to tell me I would rearrange the dust, rather than actually remove it.

So I know I didn’t always have a compulsive need to clean.

I had my first five children while living in various apartments. And because they were often older buildings, I never had a sense that I was getting out of control. How could I tell if something was too clean?

But when we bought our first house, it was brand new with white walls, appliances, tile and bathtubs…an OCD dream until it turns into a nightmare. I forgot to take into account what actually happens when you live in a clean, white house with five little boys.

At some point, probably when I’d spent four hours cleaning the microwave vent with Q-tips and bleach, I began to realize something wasn’t right. Especially when someone used it for popcorn and the butter leaked all over it…and I wept.

The laws of Entropy did not exist in my house. And when you try to deny a physics law, there are consequences. Atoms and molecules don’t acknowledge OCD.

As Jeff Goldblum’s character in Jurassic Park said: “Life will not be contained”.

It took me awhile to recognize my problem.

I had to first recognize that I acquired this obsession through years of living with someone who had the same issues. I had always thought my husband put up with my need for clean.
But after my illness, when most of the workload fell on him, what I saw was a person who reacted with unreasonable anger to the everyday messes of life.

Anyone with children knows that laundry is the Neverending Story.

I understood that from the get go, so I don’t think I ever really obsessed over keeping my laundry basket empty. But laundry was the one domestic skill my husband was good at.

And when I was unable to keep up during my recovery, he would do it.

And he kept that laundry basket empty.

And then he rubbed my face in it like a naughty dog.

Whenever someone would ask the “laundry question”…how did we keep up with the laundry having six boys? My husband would say he did the laundry.

It’s alright. I would have been envious of any woman whose husband did the laundry too.

And I was in enough denial to believe that he was doing it to help me.

But my heart would sink whenever I heard the washer going early in the morning.

Whenever I tried to get back in the laundry room and find he’d folded every article of clothing and hustled the boys in to put their things away.

I would ask him to give me some time to get it done, and he would respond with a litany of his accomplishments in laundry. It appeared to be his territory now.

The subtle sarcasm he used to let me know I was inadequate; the increasing annoyance whenever he found someone’s dirty clothes in the hamper…it made me angry at his mother for teaching him how to do laundry.

Because of course, I couldn’t get mad at my husband for it.

And I understood later why he treated me that way.

It was a competition.  

The same with cooking.

He had a job as a chef for awhile. But he is not a chef and never will be. He’s a cook.

He was fortunate enough to work for a company that didn’t require him to be creative with food.

He just had to work hard and fast and follow a formula.

And he was perfectly competent to do it.

But he couldn’t accept the title of chef when he knew he had no passion for food.

And worse…I knew it too. And he knew I knew it.

I love food. I grew up in California with an abundance and variety of food, and my mother was a gourmet.
Food became an inspiration for me the same way charcoal and paint and words did.

But that inspiration proved a problem when my husband became a chef.

And instead of enjoying my cooking, he competed with it.

When my obsession with perfection spilled into my cooking, things got worse.

I imagine from his point of view, the effect was a bit like what his laundry efforts did to me.

I thought I was just trying to make the best dinner ever, but the harder I tried, the angrier he became.

Cause and effect, of course.

Because co-dependency doesn’t operate on a conscious level, I didn’t realize I’d painted myself into a corner. Everything I did was subliminally motivated.

If he needed to believe he was an authentic chef so he wouldn’t quit and leave us destitute, I took pains to invite people over for a feast and give him all the credit. Even when I did ninety-nine percent of the work.

If he needed people to think his wife was a good cook, I’d spend hours on a new recipe and let him take samples to whomever he wanted to impress.

But at home, I’d watch as he dumped hot sauce or ketchup all over my dinners and wonder why I kept trying.

I kept trying because OCD is the saliva of Pavlov’s dog. It was the response to a potential reward.

Sometimes I got that reward, but more often I just drooled.

Everything in my marriage turned into a competition.

And I had to compete like the original “Running Man”. I had no choice in the matter. At least that is what my mind told me.

Until I figured it out.

Then the competition ended…and nobody won.

When my husband and I separated, I didn’t pick up a single sock, or make my bed, or clean the toilets for almost six months.

I just stopped.

Cold turkey OCD.

It was like a miracle cure. One day I’m weird and the next I’m not.

I felt absolutely no pressure to make someone take a bath, or pick up their clothes.

The first night I left the dirty dishes in the kitchen, I slept like a baby.

In the morning, I pushed the dishes aside and made some coffee…and I didn’t even wash out the coffee pot first. I just rinsed it.

I knew I’d swung the pendulum back to the far side. But that’s how it often is.

The middle ground is a nebulous place for me.

But I’m getting there.

I made my bed yesterday…and washed the coffee pot.

Progress not perfection, friends