Image Alt Text: Photograph of four colorful lampshades on a black background, all askew.

Me, trying to explain my not-so-bad-all-things-considered* OCD to my loving husband after I burst into tears tonight over a lampshade:

It’s not that I actually care about whether the lampshades are straight. I don’t even like that lamp. That’s a hideous lamp. In fact, if that lamp were to disappear I would be happy. Why do we even HAVE that lamp? It looks like some mother-of-pearl barfed all over a broken slinky. And then the lampshade is even worse.

So right now it feels like the entire world is flipping upside-down. You know how [terrible thing, terrible thing, and not-so-terrible thing but it’s really big and out of control and also happening right now] are all happening at once? I can’t control any of that. So I straighten the lampshades. I can control the lampshades.

Does that make sense?

Husband: It’s not about the lampshades.

Me: Or the pantry light being left on, or you not wiping down the kitchen counters, or the back door being left open, or any of that. None of that matters. I know that.

Okay. HALF of me knows that.

The rest of me is freaking the fuck out and wants to hide under the covers.

Husband: [Squeezes my hand.] Well, it IS a national holiday.

[Closes the bedroom door behind him and takes the kids out for the afternoon.]

*I always say this. “I have OCD. It’s not that bad.” What is “bad”? Like, if you aren’t Adrian Monk it’s not bad? HAHAHA. Good bye.

Read all my writing on disability and mental health: published pieces and blog posts.

Alt Text: Monochrome photograph of a rain shower on a brick walkway. Image via Pixabay.

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