I call myself crazy so that when others do it might not hurt as bad.

I sit in my car staring at the door. I wonder if I wait long enough if someone will open the door to leave the store. If I see them head for the door I can jump out of the car quickly and make it to the door before it closes.  I can catch the corner of it with my foot so that I won’t have to touch it. Here we go! A car pulls into the parking spot next to me. I wait until the driver opens his door and then I do the same. I walk just a little slower than him so that he makes it to the door before I do. I watch as he grabs the door handle and pulls it open without thinking about it, without hesitation. The idea of touching that door handle with my bare hands disgusts me. Walking into a store behind a man or entering a store as a man is leaving has its benefits. There’s about a 50% chance that he will hold the door open for me. I’m guessing it’s because I’m a woman and I often make a point to make eye contact with the person touching the door and smile at them; this often leads to me not having to touch the door at all which is a great relief.

I thank the man for holding the door for me with a smile. As he heads for the snack aisle I wonder if he will wash his hands before he eats. The answer is generally no. I see people touch door handles, gas pumps, counters, anything in public and then they touch their face, rub their mouth, or open a bag of chips and pop them into their mouth with dirty hands. It disgusts me. It freaks me out. It terrifies me. How can they do that? How can they do that with dirty hands?

I walk to the drink cooler on the side of the store. Another man is standing in front of the section I need. I stand back and wait for him to finish looking. When he retrieves his selection of beverages I have to choose mine. I ran out of the paper I leave in my car that I use to open public doors or freezer doors so that I don’t have to touch them. So today I have to use my hands to open this cooler door. I really don’t want to. I grab the very top of the cooler handle that I tell myself most people probably don’t touch because it’s awkward to hold. I know that’s a lie but sometimes I have to lie to myself. I take out two bottles of water and carry them in my arms. I have to press them against my body to hold them securely. I have to pretend like they aren’t really touching me or that it doesn’t count because they are cold and hopefully nobody has touched them since they were stocked. Still my brain is beginning to freak out. I can’t stop thinking about touching the cooler door and how many germs must be covering that thing. I let the cooler door slam closed behind me as I walk toward the next aisle.

It was empty in the store today until the annoying lawn crew stumbled inside. At least ten guys now crowd the coffee aisle as I walk down it to reach the wrapped pastries. I look up to see a man dressed in scrubs walking toward me. I take in a sharp breath. My nerves skyrocket. I just heard on the news the other day one of the stations saying you should avoid anyone in scrubs because they carry a lot of germs. I can’t do this today. I already felt really wound up when I woke up this morning and now this. I try to hurry to get the rest of my stuff, maybe I can make it to the counter before this guy in scrubs. If I do that I will feel a little better about it. But if he makes it there before me I can’t handle the idea of having the same cashier as him. I don’t want to touch anything he’s touched! I squeeze through the lawn guys trying not to bump into any of them. I pick up my wrapped pastry I get for breakfast. I head toward the counter when I hear the cashier say “I was just lying down to sleep when they called me in here.” Oh no. I freeze. That sounds like someone called in to work. What if they are sick? They are probably sick. I don’t want to get sick. Oh gosh, I touched all this stuff and the cooler handle. I can’t do this. I could pretend I don’t feel overwhelmingly contaminated from touching the cooler handle, I could try really hard to avoid the guy in scrubs and try to beat him to the counter, but the cashier calling in to work sends me over the edge. I’m so upset and it’s turning to anger really fast. I feel the anger intensifying. I put back the bottles of water. I put back the wrapped pastry. I try to leave the aisle but two of the lawn workers start horsing around and nearly bump into me. I can’t handle that! I can’t be touched by them! “What the fuck?” I say as they stumble toward me. I have to back up and put my hands out to keep him from falling into me. He rights himself just before making contact with me. I turn away quickly and rush down the other end of the aisle. I push open the front door with my foot. I hurry into my car and drive away.

I want to cry. I want to scream. I am so freaked out. I am so scared. I am so scared of all the germs. I am so scared of getting sick. I am terrified. I am angry. I am panicked. I drive to work. I really don’t feel up to being here now. I can only imagine everything being covered in germs. I don’t want to be around anyone. I don’t want to touch anything. I don’t want anyone to touch me or my stuff. I want to go home. I want to go home and shower. I want to go home and shower and crawl into bed and cry myself to sleep. But I can’t. I have to work. I have to make money because I have to pay bills.

I walk through the door. I drop my stuff at my desk. I walk directly to the sink and wash my hands, trying desperately to wash away the germs and fear. I look at the paper towels as I rinse my hands. Everyone touches those things. Not many people wash their hands around here. They touch door knobs or books or carts or anything else and they don’t wash their hands. They grab the paper towels and tear pieces off with dirty hands. It terrifies me more. I breathe. I tear a piece of paper towel off trying to trick myself into believing it’s clean and no one has touched it this morning but I know that’s not true. I watch the cleaning staff pick up trash with gloved hands, pull the trash out of the large trashcans with bare hands at times and then grab the paper towels, tear off a piece, and use it to wipe the counters.

I dry my hands trying to pretend the paper towels are clean. I dry my hands trying to pretend the paper towels are clean and that I can stop freaking out. But it doesn’t work. My mind continuously replays the events. My mind fills with thoughts of my fears, how contaminated I feel, how scared I am of getting sick; they play over and over and over and over again until I feel like I’m going to scream. Until I feel like I’m going to cry. Until I feel like I’m going to break. Until I feel like I can’t take anymore, like I’m going to explode, like I’m going to fall to the ground in a heap of sobs and hyperventilation. And when I feel like I can’t take anymore the thoughts continue, the events replay, and it doesn’t stop. Why won’t it stop? My co-workers walk in the door. They say good morning and ask how I am. I force a smile, I’m really good at hiding the truth, and say “I’m ok, how are you?” I listen to their weekend stories or family moments with my mind roaring, screaming at me. It won’t stop. It won’t stop because OCD doesn’t care about my sanity, or what’s left of it. It won’t stop because OCD doesn’t care about me. It won’t stop until it destroys me and honestly, I’m not sure how much longer I can fight it.