OCD
My brother is a prankster and good-natured comedian. Whereever he is, people are laughing and having a good time. For this reason, he is surrounded by people who love him and call him friend...even when he is more inclined to call them "acquaintance." The downside to his personality is that we often forget that underneath the humor and amiability is a smart, deep-thinking man.
In short, he's often brilliant.
He had a brief conversation with my husband in which only the sparest detail has been passed to me. DH told me just enough to rile me up, it being his nature to put me off-kilter. Something about how I am generally surrounded by turmoil and trouble of my own making, and that I'm obsessive compulsive.
Trying to turn it into a joke, but really being somewhat hurt by the insinuation, I called my brother and challenged him on it. He did some skirting, but admitted that he thought I was OCD.
At first I was derisive. But even I had to finally admit that there was something to the accusation, since I dwelled on that comment for weeks.
One to overthink a subject to death. That's me. One to get onto a new passion and work on it frenzedly. That's me. Hold a grudge. That' me.
Funny that I could live this lifestyle for 40+ years and not see it for what it is. I might not be the kind of person that locks and unlocks a door twenty times or follows destructive rituals to the point of exhaustion (is hashing over a subject for months a destructive ritual?), but I have to admit that I do have OCD tendencies. Combine that with my anxiety and depression patterns, I finally have to admit to myself that lived my adult life with a form of mental illness. Have I lived my life successfully? Meaning, have I lived a full life despite my disorder, or have I lived a crippled life because of it. My answer is different depending upon the day.
My brother-in-law lost his five year battle to cancer. I flew to my sister's side in hopes of being help to her. Instead, I had this most horrible realization while I was there. My family expects nothing of me. Asks nothing of me. Because they think me incapable of providing it? It hasn't always been this way, which makes me think that maybe I've gotten much worse over the years. My sister was glad I was there; I know that. But, she got her emotional support from her girlfriends and from my brother (proving once again his amazing insight). Originally, there was a fear that T's husband may have left her into financial straits, and plans were made to organize her bills and determine the status of her current situation. The organization of this paperwork was assigned to my SIL, despite the fact that she was already overwhelmed with a number of time-consuming tasks of her own. The fact is that everyone knew she would come through for them, no matter what. Nobody asked me to do anything. I sat there like a third wheel.
Because I have created this myself. I do become overwhelmed by things, get angry and upset, and I withdraw. I don't cope well. My family knows this, and they have learned to not assign tasks to me. But somehow, I've slipped through these years without seeing what was happening.
There is another woman in my family who is socially inept. She has "problems" but nobody is particularly clear on exactly what those problems are. In the fashion typical of my family, we handle her as a family joke and embarrassment. It occurred to me that I had become another version of her. My family doesn't exclude me, but I sense now that I have sort of edged to the outside circle of my family. It used to be because I lived so far away. Now I think it is also because I simply don't function in an acceptable way. I have isolated myself. I fear that they might be joking about me the same way we did her. This horrifies me.
The worst part is that even as I see the isolation happening and I dislike it, I continue to add to it. I've been home this whole week recovering from a surgery, and I'm lonely. But I don't call my friends and I don't call my friend to say that I'm lonely and i'd like company. I tell myself instead that nobody wants to be bothered with my whining. I'm so often depressed or down about something, I'd rather keep it to myself. And the OCD spins merrily on. To fill my hour, I started reading a Western Civilization textbook, and now I've got maybe 30 books on order at the library based on interesting subjects I now want to read about in further detail. Not one or two books.....every book the library has to offer on the subject of paleonthropic and neolithic culture....and I've got a list on other Egyptian and Mesopotamian subjects to follow. Sheez. What's the point of that.
And yet, despite the fact that this worries me a bit, I'm also happy that I'm interested in something enough to want to pursue it. Because when I'm depressed, nothing interests me. So, in this way, my depression and OCD patter back and forth, and I sit and watch to see how this tennis match called my life will play out.
In short, he's often brilliant.
He had a brief conversation with my husband in which only the sparest detail has been passed to me. DH told me just enough to rile me up, it being his nature to put me off-kilter. Something about how I am generally surrounded by turmoil and trouble of my own making, and that I'm obsessive compulsive.
Trying to turn it into a joke, but really being somewhat hurt by the insinuation, I called my brother and challenged him on it. He did some skirting, but admitted that he thought I was OCD.
At first I was derisive. But even I had to finally admit that there was something to the accusation, since I dwelled on that comment for weeks.
One to overthink a subject to death. That's me. One to get onto a new passion and work on it frenzedly. That's me. Hold a grudge. That' me.
Funny that I could live this lifestyle for 40+ years and not see it for what it is. I might not be the kind of person that locks and unlocks a door twenty times or follows destructive rituals to the point of exhaustion (is hashing over a subject for months a destructive ritual?), but I have to admit that I do have OCD tendencies. Combine that with my anxiety and depression patterns, I finally have to admit to myself that lived my adult life with a form of mental illness. Have I lived my life successfully? Meaning, have I lived a full life despite my disorder, or have I lived a crippled life because of it. My answer is different depending upon the day.
My brother-in-law lost his five year battle to cancer. I flew to my sister's side in hopes of being help to her. Instead, I had this most horrible realization while I was there. My family expects nothing of me. Asks nothing of me. Because they think me incapable of providing it? It hasn't always been this way, which makes me think that maybe I've gotten much worse over the years. My sister was glad I was there; I know that. But, she got her emotional support from her girlfriends and from my brother (proving once again his amazing insight). Originally, there was a fear that T's husband may have left her into financial straits, and plans were made to organize her bills and determine the status of her current situation. The organization of this paperwork was assigned to my SIL, despite the fact that she was already overwhelmed with a number of time-consuming tasks of her own. The fact is that everyone knew she would come through for them, no matter what. Nobody asked me to do anything. I sat there like a third wheel.
Because I have created this myself. I do become overwhelmed by things, get angry and upset, and I withdraw. I don't cope well. My family knows this, and they have learned to not assign tasks to me. But somehow, I've slipped through these years without seeing what was happening.
There is another woman in my family who is socially inept. She has "problems" but nobody is particularly clear on exactly what those problems are. In the fashion typical of my family, we handle her as a family joke and embarrassment. It occurred to me that I had become another version of her. My family doesn't exclude me, but I sense now that I have sort of edged to the outside circle of my family. It used to be because I lived so far away. Now I think it is also because I simply don't function in an acceptable way. I have isolated myself. I fear that they might be joking about me the same way we did her. This horrifies me.
The worst part is that even as I see the isolation happening and I dislike it, I continue to add to it. I've been home this whole week recovering from a surgery, and I'm lonely. But I don't call my friends and I don't call my friend to say that I'm lonely and i'd like company. I tell myself instead that nobody wants to be bothered with my whining. I'm so often depressed or down about something, I'd rather keep it to myself. And the OCD spins merrily on. To fill my hour, I started reading a Western Civilization textbook, and now I've got maybe 30 books on order at the library based on interesting subjects I now want to read about in further detail. Not one or two books.....every book the library has to offer on the subject of paleonthropic and neolithic culture....and I've got a list on other Egyptian and Mesopotamian subjects to follow. Sheez. What's the point of that.
And yet, despite the fact that this worries me a bit, I'm also happy that I'm interested in something enough to want to pursue it. Because when I'm depressed, nothing interests me. So, in this way, my depression and OCD patter back and forth, and I sit and watch to see how this tennis match called my life will play out.
posted by Rhonda L at 8:19 PM
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