I think I can safely say that I have been dogged by OCD for all of my life. Its exact time of birth remains uncertain, but my earliest memory of an OCD-related event most likely occurred when I was around five years old.
As a young child, I valued neatness. My room had to be organized according to a definite pattern that conveyed a sense of purpose: smaller books beside larger books, toys arranged with decorum, order prevailing over chaos, structure dominating randomness. Symmetry over imbalance. Things had to be a certain way, or else I was haunted by the dread of imperfection.
Once, I was forced to leave the house in a hurry, and my mom helped me pack up my toys. Unfortunately, she failed to return all of them to their proper places. I was haunted by the disruption to the natural order that such recklessness seemed to represent. For hours afterward, I ruminated on the consequences of such folly, wondering with desperation about the severity of the misdeed.
This was one of many such incidents that would linger in my mind, particularly when circumstances prevented me from physically correcting the error. Such was the perilous equilibrium upon which the world's fortune seemed to hang.
Later, my obsessions spread to cleanliness. Germs were everywhere, and I loathed the notion that I might become infected. Touching anything that appeared even remotely unclean became a harbinger of disease, and I constantly needed reassurance from my parents—my mom more than my dad—that I had not fallen under the influence of some diabolical pox.
I never did. Clearly, my immune system was tougher than I gave it credit for. At the time, however, this rarely mattered. For all intents and purposes, I was the equivalent of a "dead boy walking."
As I matured, my fear of the unclean was compounded by a need to wash and purify. I subjected my hands to endless episodes of vigorous scrubbing that invariably left them chafed and reddened. This was my remedy for coping with the infection that, at its most diabolical, seemed terrifyingly real.
Thankfully, my mom could see through what I was doing and coaxed me to stop through a well-judged mixture of gentle reprimand and necessary empathy. My OCD would subside briefly, choked back but waiting behind the door to pounce should the next opportunity present itself.
In a sense, OCD is a cunning beast. It seeks out the lowest level of your mental being and then strikes with brazen cruelty. Any doubt it can latch onto becomes fair game. Once an intrusive thought worms its way into your head and escapes that initial check, it remains there, clawing at whatever contentment you possess and magnifying its presence with every passing moment. It can consume you, and it will, because it is extraordinarily resilient.
The only respite, at least in those early days, was rest: a clearing of the mind and a retreat to some cerebral space that OCD could not penetrate. There was an urgent need to refocus, and I gradually learned how to do this while eagerly waiting for the return of some facsimile of peace of mind—a peace that, in the moment, could seem impossibly remote.