That day it was bad. Yet amidst the chaotic hurricane swirling around me, I just stopped. My numbness was like the calm eye of a storm. I don’t know how much actual time I just sat there as profanities, some from my boss, others internal, rained down on me because all I was trying to grasp onto was that this was my reality now – the harsh and soul-draining work environment, the OCD that was isolating me further from society and causing me to fail at work, at friendships, with family, and at life. This failure on a grand scale actually was my life now. The utter sadness of it all kept me very still. I felt silent and empty. I couldn’t believe....continue reading

        Well, one day at work it got to be too much. Actually, that’s how I felt every day at work, but this day was markedly different. This day would change the routine. I don’t exactly remember why I felt that way or what led me to write an email to myself that was my most desperate cry for help yet. I remember feeling like I was at rock-bottom that day. I had recently gotten into huge fights with two of my best friends who had done the most to try and see me through my condition, Aliza and Kelcy. I had lashed out at these two best friends by writing a vicious email to each of them that essentially let them know I was literally writing them out of my life for....continue reading

        Cracks were starting to show. My one-time preoccupation with looking good in public had slowly given way to feeling safe. This meant that my ample collection of properly starched dress shirts, worn among clean-lined, tailored suits had given way to a select few dress shirts that hadn’t been “tainted” through an unwanted encounter. And I was now alternating among two suits that had long lost their crisp form. The suits had grown frumpy and the wrinkles needed serious professional ironing, instead of just smoothing out with a wet hand, which is what I had been doing for a while now. At this stage most of my dress clothes had been thrown out because they had....continue reading

        “People came up to me and actually asked if you were sick,” Regina said almost accusingly.         “I don’t care what those people think,” I lied.         “Well you should!” She continued, now more softened. “You don’t look healthy. People are just concerned.”         “Gossip isn’t concern,” I retorted. “Look, I had absolutely no desire to attend that thing anyway and only did attend to support you because you hinted, strongly, that it was important to you. I was still tired from my trip, I didn’t want to be there, and I didn’t feel like seeing anyone or being social. All that probably came through....continue reading

        I was having some difficulty keeping track of the rules of quidditch. JK Rowling had concocted a rather complicated game and, paired with my ever-present unwanted ruminations, grasping the fast-paced action of the unfamiliar fictitious match wasn’t proving easy. It was past midnight and I was drinking hot chocolate in the lobby of the very upscale Shutters on the Beach Hotel in Los Angeles and nearly half done with the first book of the Harry Potter series. As it was a beach hotel, the lobby wasn’t grandiose or intimidatingly ornate. Rather it had a cozy beach cottage feel to it and I was sitting close to the large, wood-burning fireplace which afforded just....continue reading

        Whoever designed Charles De Gaul airport should be shot. It’s a convoluted maze that bears no practical and certainly no aesthetic justification as to why it’s so confusing. The whole airport is just an ugly mind-fuck. This was my second time in ten days at this airport, but I was just as confused this time as when I flew in for my friend’s wedding. This time I was here to fly back home to L.A. and leave the social disorganization of Europe.         After a few bouts of sprinting in the wrong direction and misreading of gate information, I had, thankfully at last, finally found my departure gate. Catching my breath, there I stood, scoping....continue reading

        We didn’t have a room. It was my responsibility to book the rooms. That’s how we divvied it up when we planned our trip in L.A.; Joe was responsible for transportation to the wedding, Mike would handle transportation post wedding, and I would book rooms for our travels after the wedding. I did make an earnest effort. Actually, I spent way too much time researching our options. It’s what I did during any spare time during my work day as it got closer to the wedding date. I agonized over it. I searched every five-star and four-star hotel I could to find a price that was reasonable. All my suggestions were too pricey and vetoed by Joe and Mike. They wanted to....continue reading

        The door to Peete’s Coffee had to be pulled open, so I loitered near the door until another would-be-customer arrived to open it for me. With severe OCD, public door handles are almost septic. After one minute, twenty-nine seconds of standing idle a few feet away from the door and scanning the street for approaching customers, I noticed a man seemingly walking toward the Peete’s Coffee entrance. I took out my cell phone and pretended I was occupied reading something on it as I sauntered up to be right behind him. He was indeed entering Peete’s Coffee. He pulled open the door and I pretended to absently reach for the door as if I was about to open it myself....continue reading

        I turned up the air-conditioning in my car as I drove to work. It was nearing that time of year – summer days: lack of compunction, ease of thought, lightness of clothing and being. Sadly, summer takes on a very different meaning in the context of young adulthood and early career. No family trips, no endless TV viewing and leisurely reading. No break from mandatory labor. Work is the daily routine. A painful, mundane, soul-draining, daily routine.         Then there’s having to perform this routine – “The Wasting of Life” – in Los Angeles. L.A. is not an easy city to waste away in. Much of its architecture isn’t too attractive. Converted....continue reading

To say it feels odd to make a phone call home as a patient in a mental institution is an understatement. Yet not too long ago, that’s exactly what I found myself doing. I was calling my mom in Los Angeles from McLean Hospital in Boston to let her know I had safely checked in. I was a patient in its Obsessive Compulsive Disorder Institute, a residential facility where people whose lives are severely hampered by Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) come to hopefully get better. One has to apply to McLean’s OCD Institute and if a review panel deems you qualified, meaning in serious need of treatment, then you are granted one of their twenty residential spots. Having been a Los....continue reading