For the thirtieth time today, I am scanning the walls and shelves of my room, taking mental stock of where every single thing is.
“This is… there. It’s right there. And that is right there…”
The books have not moved, the video game consoles are in their exact same spot they were twenty minutes ago. My DVDs and Blu-Rays are still on the two shelves on the wall behind the door, above my two skateboards and a laughably ostentatious gold-hilted fantasy sword that I just sort of.. have. By the time the day is over, I will likely go through this same process dozens of more times, debilitated for a minute or more each time, just having to once again stare and affirm that my room is still how it was. I will not be outside today, save to take ten or so furtive steps into the life-draining summer heat to toss a can into the recycling bins and to check the mail. No, I will be in this room. And I will stare.
I’ve been this way for at least a decade, if not longer, and always the worst of it in places I see regularly. I manage to notice when my best friend’s fridge has gained magnets or even when they are just moved around a bit, I can tell when single books on my shelves have been moved, and I could always tell when my sister’s husband had taken it upon himself to move one or two of my items a couple inches to the left, as if just to intentionally cause me more anxiety at noticing something was off with no explanation.
I will be the first to admit my relative luck, that my OCD compulsions are largely ones that don’t manifest in obvious-to-an-outsider ways; issues with textures, the strong room-checking compulsion, hand-washing that makes current CDC guidelines seem mild. At the same time, of course, it took far longer for me or professionals to realize that, yes, OCD was another guest at the disorder party my brain was hosting.
My family history for mental health reads almost like a chosen-one lineage, if this were a fantasy story and disorders were blessings from the gods, with suicides, depression, and substance abuse popping up with abnormal regularity. Of course, added life experience of my own pulled its own weight, making sure that the debate of nature or nurture was still very much undecided, in my case.
In the course of my “mental health journey” (a phrase I personally find bothersome because very few journeys consist of remaining largely unmoving and wrapped up in blankets on the floor staring at a wall for hours a day) I’ve developed a few coping mechanisms, most of which I would argue are at least potentially not unhealthy ones; I don’t do drugs and only drink rarely, so I mean, points for me versus every other member of my entire family, at least. I like to spend time with friends, I like to perform comedy, I like to go to bookstores.
That was, of course, until March of this year. I’ll spare you the details as to why (if you don’t know, feel free to do some googling), but suffice it to say, I have been trapped indoors and alone far more than I am comfortably acclimated for. I’ve been trying to fill the void, to be digitally present, as physically is no longer an option. Group chats on my iPhone, Facebook, Instagram, twitter, keeping up with it all, trying to keep aware of the broader world that I am no longer interfacing with. It’s almost become a part-time job, trying to make sure that in between the days or weeks of solipsistic loops I fall into, I keep in touch with the list of friends and family so that I at least am doing my best to make sure everyone is weathering this situation as well as that can manage, and to be there for them if they are not. I don’t want to make this out to be some sort of great gesture or sacrifice on my part; I just am a constant, consistent worrier about everything, and people I care about fall towards the top of that “everything” pile.
But the digital life is draining. All the apps and sites, designed for retention and engagement through artistic manipulation of dopamine triggers, are hard to tear oneself away from. And every day there is a new car crash to watch, a new injustice to witness through the eyes pointed everywhere from the backs of our cellphone, a new string of words from people in power who seem to not even care about concealing their hateful natures any longer.
The new times are hard for us all. Many of us, even the introverts, are reaching out for something.
At this point, I ought to be offering some sort of answer, some simple trick, some life hack to make things easier. But I don’t have one. I have one serotonin molecule left, scrambling in the postapocalyptic wastes of my brain, doing its best to just stick around. It’s the best it can do, some days. And right now, the best we can do has to be enough. I should be writing for my website more, I should be getting ready for college classes to start, I should be reading more, I should be doing this and should be doing that, but instead I have been stuck in my compulsions, staring at these walls, and just trying to get through the days. You likely have your own list of ‘shoulds’. But right now, just do your best.
