1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7.
This is the number of strokes it takes to wash each finger. My knuckles are bleeding. Are yours?
Thirty is the lucky number while brushing my teeth. My tongue is raw and things no longer taste the same. The roof of my mouth is always peeling. It hurts to smile.
I was born on March 21, 1976. Looking back and listening to stories of my childhood, I can now see the signs of OCD at a very early age. At 5, I would painstakingly line up my hot wheels cars, G.I. Joes, Cowboys and Indians, etc. After lining each of them up and making sure that they were in the precise location to defend their space, I refused to play with them. I did not want them to be out of place. I suppose that this could be caused by feelings of not being in control of my life as a whole, and compensating by having total control of my [very] immediate surroundings.
At this time, I was also very conscientious about my appearance. I would spend inordinate amounts of time brushing my hair. I did this so furiously and pressed down so hard that one would think that I was trying to eradicate a large colony of lice. I would carry a brush with me everywhere I went, whether it was school or the grocery store. I hated windy days and tried to master the fine art of holding my head at precisely the right angle as to not disturb my perfect, golden locks. Even to this day, I obsess about my hair, as those who know me can attest. Once a year I end up shaving my head completely bald. I have endured many questions and used many excuses about my problem that even I am not satisfied with. To tell you the truth, I don't know why I do it. I just do.