I’m in the hairdressers. It’s a posh one I could never normaly afford but I’m letting a hairdresser practice on me, so its free. Whoop.
I have tried every excuse to get out of it. Husband couldn’t get out of work to take the boy? Nope, selfish bastard finishes early today. Oooh Arthur has a bit of a sniffle and it’s raining, I should stay in. Nope, glorious autumn day. Bastards. Where’s my pathetic fallacy when I need it?! I don’t feel glorious, I feel sick with nerves. I want The Tempest, Wuthering Heights, not bloody Winnie the Pooh and the sunny fucking day. I’m not being pampered, I’m being tortured.
Because the truth is I have OCD. I’m lucky it is only mild but in some situations I can feel it’s nasty little stranglehold. I’m not a cartoon caricature, I’m not Monk, I am fortunate that I can do everyday things without my compulsions taking over but that takes CBT and usually medication. It’s not “I like things to be tidy, it’s my OCD” (no, waitress, it’s your job) but also it isn’t crippling. Generally I force myself to act through my compulsions and try to neutralise the obbsessive thoughts with other, less repulsive obsessive thoughts.
What it means on an everyday level is that being touched bothers me, especially with something that’s touched (countless) other people – chairs, towels, brushes, you see where I’m going – because I imagine I can see the germs invading from these foreign objects. Leaving the house is a bit of a battle daily but worse still when it goes against my specific comfort times such as 9am or 1pm. And above all the distinct and repetitive thought “I am worthless” puts a bit of a crimp in the concept of a luxury pampering sesh.
In light of recent world events, I appreciate this is a First-world problem. OCD feels like a pathetic, selfish non-illness. I know that a free haircut is not to be sneered at but, honestly, I’d rather hide at home and look like shit.