I’m not particularly proud to admit it, but there are moments when I find myself feeling a bit sorry for my situation with obsessive-compulsive disorder. Why couldn’t I deal with something less intrusive and easier to manage, like excessive ear wax or a hammertoe? But then I start to think about the logistics of dealing with ear wax removal, and I find myself appreciating my OCD. After all, it’s not the worst thing in the world; I can still function relatively normally. Plus, I don’t have to wear any uncomfortable orthotics.
As I type this, I’m lounging by the hotel pool on the first day of my five-day getaway. The resort is stunning—complete with a vast infinity pool adorned with fountains. A staff member is circulating, offering ice-cold water infused with fresh strawberries and warm towels. I’m enjoying a captivating book alongside a challenging word puzzle. It’s as idyllic as it gets—until the piercing voice of a child interrupts my peaceful moment: “Help! Mom, Dad look. Help! Look at me! Help!” Clearly, he hasn’t grasped the lesson from The Boy Who Cried Wolf. I shoot him a glare, hoping my disdain is clear, and then I catch sight of it: the largest booger imaginable, which he triumphantly displays. I silently wish he would just eat it. Sadly, he flicks it into the water—water that my husband is beckoning me to join him in.
To avoid the potential contamination from the snot, I decide to enter the pool from the opposite side. I perform a frantic jig around the hot deck and swim over to my husband. He looks surprised when I approach.
“Why didn’t you just get in at the stairs by our chairs?” he asks.
“Oh,” I reply, “I wanted to sneak up on you. I was being sneaky.”
“Then you should have skipped the hot coal dance. Everyone was watching you.”
He pulls me into the water, and for a moment, I relish the intimacy. But then I start scanning the pool for The Booger. Could it have drifted over here? Is there a current?
“Did you hear me?” he asks.
“No,” I admit honestly. “I was distracted.”
“By the kid?”
No, by my overwhelming desire for a Hazmat suit. “What kid?” I ask, my eyes darting around for a distraction to block out the image of a giant blob of snot.
“Over there,” he points, “playing on the steps.”
I spot the toddler, his sagging diaper suggesting it’s definitely full. I lift my head onto my husband’s shoulder, trying to keep my hair from touching anything nasty. I brace myself against the thought of E. Coli lurking in the water and contemplate my escape from this germ-filled nightmare.
“Can we get out?” I plead.
“So soon? It’s lovely out here.”
“I know, but I’m burning. I really should get out of the sun.” (And away from this Petri dish.)
Reluctantly, my husband—who has adapted to my quirks over the years—releases me. He understands that reasoning with me when I’m in this mindset is futile. With OCD, rationality doesn’t apply. My brain is wired to obsess over germs and health concerns, and although I have made progress through medication and therapy, the idea of swimming in a pool contaminated with boogers and feces is more than my anxiety can bear. No amount of Purell will remedy this; I’m going to need an intense decontamination.
With my eyes closed, I splash my way to the stairs opposite the toddler. The moment I exit the pool, I dash upstairs to shower with the hottest water I can manage and shampoo twice. After washing my swimsuit in Woolite and hanging it to dry on the balcony, fatigue washes over me. I need a nap.
I strip the bed of its comforter and decorative pillows (which I know hotels seldom wash) and inspect the sheets for any signs of contamination. I wish I had a Luminol light like they use on crime shows! Do they sell those on Amazon? Sitting on the bed, laptop on my lap, my attention suddenly shifts to my toes… they seem to be curling slightly.
In summary, my struggles with OCD can make even enjoyable moments, like vacation, feel overwhelmingly stressful. Despite the beauty around me, my focus often shifts to my anxieties about cleanliness and contamination, which can hinder my ability to relax and fully embrace the experience.
Keyphrase: OCD difficulties during vacation
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