YOU DOWN WITH OCD? (YEAH, YOU KNOW ME)

I have OCD.

Well, it’s undiagnosed. But I know for a fact that I have it. And as someone with OCD, I have done the research. And then, minutes after doing the research, I did it again just to make sure I did a thorough enough job. And then, twice in the middle of the night, I woke up, got out of bed, and researched it again.

I can’t remember the first time I realized I had a problem. I think it was when I moved into my first apartment in college where my morning ritual would go as so: I would take out the iron. Plug it in. Iron my J.Crew button down. Unplug the iron. Put on said J.Crew button down. Eat a granola bar. Move the iron to a different location, in case my eyes and brain tried to trick me into thinking I actually imagined unplugging the iron. Leave for class. Drive three minutes down the street. Make a U-turn and head back to my apartment. Walk up the three flights of stairs, open the door and put my hand on the iron itself to make sure it had absolutely no heat coming out of it. Grabbed another granola bar and went to class.

I did this every morning until I discovered wrinkle-free shirts.

I don’t know where I got this “habit” from. I asked my parents and they both agreed that I was insane. My mom did tell me that my grandmother used to do similar routines when she was growing up. She said that every so often, her mother would XYZ. I told my mom, “That doesn’t sound like OCD. It sounds like she was an alcoholic.”

“Oh, maybe” my mom replied.

When I moved to New Jersey a few years later, I thought my obsessive compulsive behaviors were gone, but in reality, they became stronger and more prevalent in my daily life, without me even realizing it. Even though I had gotten rid of my iron, there were new triggers I was faced with. One being lit candles.

I’m not really a candle lover, but like every other man my age, I sometimes enjoy a night alone at home with three or four vanilla candles burning while sipping on a bottle of Cabernet. When I have drained the bottle (or decided I was too drunk to function) I would place the wine glass in the sink and blow out each candle and then get into bed. During the following ten minutes, I would toss ann turn in bed, asking myself, “Did you blow out all of the candles?” and then I would remind myself, “Yes, you dummy, of course you blew them all out” but I wouldn’t believe myself. I would then get out of bed, walk into the living room and look out into the open space and see that no candles were still lit – I was standing in complete darkness. I would go back to bed, get snuggled in and close my eyes when the back of my head would ask, “Are you completely positive that you blew out every one of those candles? Sure you looked out and didn’t see light, but one of them could still be weakly lit and the flame could grow during the night. And then, well, the entire apartment could catch on fire. And because you ran out of batteries, you unhooked the smoke detector and because you drank a bottle of wine, you are going to sleep like a rock, making it impossible for you to wake up when the entire room is engulfed in flames. So, I ask you again, are you sure that you blew out all of the candles?”

Another example of how bad my OCD was getting was me not being sure that I locked the front door when I left my apartment. Every morning I would leave, lock the door, jiggle the handle to make sure it was locked, and then walk to the bus stop. But just as I was getting there I would wonder if I did, in fact, lock the door that morning, or if I am remembering the time I locked the door in 2012. So I would walk back to my apartment, jiggle the door knob, see that I had locked it in the first place and then walk back to the bus stop, making me miss the scheduled bus and being late for work. There were times, and I hate to even admit this, that I would go back to my apartment a third or fourth time just to make sure the door was locked.

Crazy, right? I know. My mind would always go to the worst possible outcomes. Being robbed or burning the house down were my two big ones. I don’t even know why I constantly think of these things. I have never been robbed (except for my dignity one night in Daytona Beach) and I have never set anything on fire (besides the dance floor at a wedding). There are no known triggers for me as to why I would behave in this way.

One of my favorite OCD stories I like to tell at birthday dinners and corporate events happened three years ago. I was still living in New Jersey and my friends invited me to go to dinner in Astoria, Queens. The travel time from where I lived to where I needed to go was about an hour and change, and I was already running late because I needed to spray my hair in (long story, will explain some other time).

The apartment I lived in in New Jersey was great for two main reasons: it was super close to the bus stop and it was above a pizza place. Nothing will make you feel more at home than the smell of pepperoni or chicken Parmesan at all hours of the day. You would think that because I lived above a pizza place (where the owner was my landlord) that I would get a pretty sick discount. I didn’t. But I ate there often enough, you would think the food was free.

Since I ate there at least twice a week and had to deliver my rent checks to the cashier, the staff came to know and tolerate me. They even gave me a nickname: Mozzarella sticks.

The night my friends invited me for dinner, I got ready, left the house, and ran to the bus stop to make sure I made it on the bus that was about to leave. The bus ride was a pretty easy commute to the city with my apartment being only seconds from the Lincoln Tunnel. I sat in my seat on the bus, without a care in the world, when just as we began going through the tunnel I thought to myself, “Fuck. I didn’t turn the oven off.”

Earlier that afternoon, I had used the oven for maybe the third time since living there to heat up a pizza slice for lunch. While on the bus, I remembered standing over the oven, waiting impatiently for the buffalo chicken slice to warm, and I remembered eating the pizza, dipping each bite into a pool of Ranch dressing. The only thing I couldn’t remember was if I turned off the oven or not.

My roommate was out of town for the weekend, so I couldn’t quickly text him to check. So I had two options: wait until we got to Port Authority to get off the bus, walk all the way upstairs and wait to get on another bus back to New Jersey, which would make me at least 45 minutes late to dinner. Or call the pizza place, explain my dilemma, and see if they could check on the oven. I decided option number two was the most convenient.

So, I got off the bus and started walking through Times Square to get to the subway that would take me to Queens. I dialed information to get the number of the pizza place and waited while the phone rang, and rang, and rang. Finally, Julie, the 19 year old niece of the owner who worked the register answered the phone, “Delivery or take out?” I stuttered into the phone that I was James from apartment 4 and that I needed her to do me a favor. Clearly, she doesn’t know who “James” is, so I had to reluctantly give her my nickname. “It’s Mozzarella Sticks…from upstairs…I came in last night…?” With that, she knew just who I was. I began telling her my situation that I was “out of town” and had a feeling that I left the oven on in my apartment.

Now, my first (or third) mistake was to say “I had a feeling.” This just basically proved the point that I am an insane person. I continued, “…I used the oven earlier and then I left for the weekend (lie #42) and I am afraid that leaving the gas oven on for the weekend could cause some sort of fire and I was wondering if you or your uncle could run upstairs and check for me.” Then, trying to come off as the good guy, I added, “I just don’t want a fire to occur and shut down the pizza place for the night.” Ugh, I’m so courteous sometimes.

As I was approaching the subway entrance, she finally agreed to have her uncle, my landlord, run up there and check. I thanked her repeatedly and went downstairs to get on the R train. Now in Astoria, I ran to the restaurant to meet my friends, where I was about 10 minutes late. When I approached the restaurant, I still hadn’t calmed down about this “gas leak” I had caused and knew that I wouldn’t be able to enjoy my bibimbap until I got the final okay from the pizza place. So I called back.

“Delivery or take out?” Julie answered.

“Hi, it’s me again. James, I mean, Mozzarella Sticks. I called a little bit ago…”

She responded, “Yes, I remember.” She seemed somewhat annoyed that I was calling back, but she didn’t understand that I had already smoked 7 cigarettes in fear that I just blew up Weehawken, New Jersey. I let a pause go over the line and then spit out, “Did you check the oven?! Is everything okay?!” She exhaled loudly, like she was extremely busy (which maybe she was since she worked at a pizza place and it was a Friday night) and said, “Yes, we checked.

The oven was off.”

I had never been so happy or relieved in my life. I felt like I had just found out I was nominated for a Golden Globe award. “Oh, that’s great news! Thank you so much, this is all….just so great! Enjoy your night!”

Click. She hung up.

I sometimes sit and remember this insane story whenever I do something crazy like ask the Uber driver to turn around so I can make sure I locked the door, or text my boyfriend to make sure he unplugged the hair dryer before going to work and cringe. I feel like I should be put on some kind of medication for this kind of behavior. When my OCD affects me, I am fine with it, because I know I am crazy and it’s just become normal to me. But when my OCD affects other people, that’s when I know it’s a problem.

I never went to get tested or treatment for my OCD in fear of being embarrassed or labeled as a crazy person. I wasn’t crazy. And I’m not crazy. I just always think the oven is on.