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In recent years I’ve gotten used to hearing people using “OCD” as shorthand for preference. For instance, someone will say, “I’m being so OCD about my throw pillows. I have to have them positioned in just such a way.” Now, orderliness is one form of obsessive-compulsive disorder but there’s a difference between preference and manic desire to fulfill an indescribable need. Unless you rearrange those throw pillows over and over again, not because you don’t like the way they look, but because you can’t get yourself to stop, you’re not OCD, you’re anal.
I’ve never interrupted someone in the middle of their flagrant misuse of a mental illness, but I could and probably should. Why is it okay to be flippant about some conditions but not others? No one jokes about having cancer if they’re healthy. To do so would be insulting to the millions who’ve succumbed to the disease. Yet, raising the issue feels pointless. These are charged times. Truth and expertise are under assault. One person’s reality is another’s fake news. Telling someone they need to be more careful with their language won’t start a conversation, it will pick a fight. The “lib line” inside Fox News will ring and within moments a report complete with breaking news graphic flashes across the screen about democracy being under attack from PC culture and, just like that, the long-smoldering culture war reignites.
So I say nothing even though I feel a twinge of hurt when someone casually disregards my pain. Of course, they don’t know I have OCD and some of this is on me. I’ve struggled with obsessive-compulsive disorder since I was a child. I went from being a kid who endlessly turned light switches on and off or who tied and untied shoes to an adult with a propensity to touch certain things – the ground, my son’s car seat – with only his right hand. Between then and now I found myself in a hospital bed having pseudo seizures because the stress of my anxiety became too much.
I used to be ashamed of my mental illness. I thought of myself as “crazy.” Indeed, depictions of mental illness in our culture bend towards absurd. Mental illness is code for unbalanced and possibly even violent. An estimated 44 million adults in the United States suffer from some kind of mental health issue. Most of us lead productive lives yet we’re shown on a narrow range from Tony Shalhoub’s character in Monk to Adam Lanza and other school shooters. An analysis of words used to describe school shooters revealed “mentally ill” as one of the most common. We’re treated as either eccentric curiosities or deranged killers. I don’t see myself, the husband with two kids who have a decent paying job and a mortgage payment.
Is it any wonder why I and others fear talking about what goes on inside our heads especially considering this nation’s treatment of those deemed “insane?” I decided a few years ago to openly discuss my anxiety and OCD. Frankly, letting go of the stigma made it easier to cope. I also wanted to help others, the 14-year-old boys of the world who love basketball but give up the sport because they can’t stop shooting hoops. They sit in the same spot five feet away from the basket pouring in shot after shot, trying to get it just right as dusk turns to night.
Think about this in another way. Imagine a world where political correctness didn’t exist. This shouldn’t be too hard. America, for most of its history, has been a country of little regard for people who weren’t rich, white and heterosexual. In this magical land, we were free to use all manner of racial slurs, debase women and terrorize members of the LGTBQ+ community. We – people who look like me – suffered from a glut of freedom. We could say things like “that’s so gay” or worse – much, much worse – and not expect pushback. Adopted norms were conflated with the natural order. Much of the criticism surrounding political correctness reflects a desire to keep things as they are. Change is hard. It’s much easier, to take everyone’s favorite piñata out of the closet and give it a few whacks.
I don’t mean to equate racism and other acts of historical trauma with sloppy language. Nor, do I want to suggest people who say things like “I’m being OCD” are terrible humans. On the contrary, I believe most are decent people struggling to make sense of a rapidly evolving set of social standards. Words are powerful. Saying you’re “being OCD” when you don’t live with the daily stress of inner torment suggests you think my reality is fun, possibly even ridiculous. I don’t understand why we continue to inflict harm even after learning that something we’ve said or done caused real damage to someone else. Why do we disregard someone’s feelings and label their concern as “PC” instead of taking them at their word?
I think our media diet has something to do with it. We’re presented as opposites: right and wrong, past and future. One side stokes fear then personalizes the event as part of a broader conspiracy to undermine a way of life. The other side uses blanket statements to degrade a class of people and label them as out of touch. Lost in the noise is any attempt at understanding. And so we go back to the piñata. We hit it and hit it and hit and hit and hit and hit and hit and hit and hit and hit and hit. We’re just so OCD.
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Photo credit: Pixabay