I know about OCD. When my brother was getting some counseling while going through a divorce, the Perfection Gene we all inherited was discussed. The therapist suggested that he let some things go, starting with the checkbook. Don’t worry about the color pen you’re using, just write down your entry in whatever is available. He told me this like it was some kind of breakthrough for the entire family. No, no, no. Neat. Perfect slant to the handwriting. Same color pen. Every entry. It’s the anal foundation this family was built on. She says it will set us free. What would Dad say? Dad who taught us how to line up baby food jars of screws on his bench like North Korean soldiers, and semi-annually scrubbed the garden hose. You need to try it.
I never did. It was too much to ask.
I also know about thumb sucking. My mom was under the impression that she shamed me into stopping at the age of 12, but it was closer to 13. I spent a year hiding in the closet taking a thumb hit every day after school. Which explains the overbite.
I read in the paper about a guy who had an extreme case of OCD. He was 34. He sucked his thumb every day, but first wrapped it in Saran Wrap to avoid the germs.
This is a mingling of mental disorders which can never lead to a good outcome, for there is no comfort to be had in sucking a thumb wrapped in plastic. It has to be skin to mouth. Alone. In the closet. Anxiously waiting every day for the mosquito bites to blossom right out of that training bra. And praying for the boys to notice the quiet, freckled-face girl that was on the verge of some kind of wonderful.
