Even If You Can’t Eliminate It
I am ten years old and staring at a speck of dirt. I am looking for movement. Stare long enough, and every speck of dirt seems to move a little.
I am worried that I will catch another case of head lice. Before bed each night, my dad asks me, how’s your head? I ask him to clarify: my itchy scalp or my headaches? Both, he says.
I write a poem about worrying that year.
*
As a teen, I learn to knock on wood. If wood isn’t around, my friends joke, you knock on your head.
It starts as a way to ward off jinxes when I say something out loud: I’ve never been stung by a bee. It evolves into a ritual to prevent thoughts from taking shape in the world: I’ve never failed a test. I haven’t been sick all year. My head’s been feeling better.
The knock becomes a tap, then becomes a swipe—one knuckle, across my forehead, a little to the right.
*
In high school, I am so dedicated to academics that I do little else but work and study. At night, I lie in bed and think about tomorrow’s test or quiz, knocking repeatedly on the wooden bookcase behind me, the wooden bedframe beneath me.
I apply to fancy private schools for college. When the clock reads 2:22, 4:44, 11:11, I silently wish that I’ll get into my dream school.
I do not get into my dream school.
*
I attend Hebrew School weekly from kindergarten through high school. As a kid, I am told that God sees everything I do.
When my parents drive me and my sister to the synagogue on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, I watch the orthodox community walk to their services wearing black hats and black coats.
One time I yell at my mom out of frustration after Yom Kippur services. I am afraid, then, that I will receive double the punishment from God—it is the holiest day of the year for Jews.
*
Years of stomachaches, headaches, eczema, aching jaw muscles, and poor sleep—doctors tell me to relax, reduce stress, try yoga, do breathing exercises, practice visualizations. But I don’t want to stop worrying.
You see, most of the time, things work out just fine. This is because I worry about them beforehand. I must worry to ward off the bad things. I worry about getting stomachaches, about doing poorly on tests and papers, about driving on the highway, about having a bad date.
*
In my twenties, I see a therapist who suggests I have obsessive compulsive disorder. I have always figured so, but it is good to hear it from an expert.
I struggle to accept that I need medication—not because of any stigma, but because I am afraid of side effects. I already have stomachaches, headaches, eczema, and poor sleep.
It takes months to find medications that work well enough for me and that I am willing to take.
Months later, then years later, I must try new combinations. I still fear side effects, but less so now.
*
I am a professor, a reader and writer. I respect books and articles. But it is challenging to read about OCD because I fear I am susceptible to developing new symptoms from what I read.
Writing about OCD is clarifying but carries a similar risk. Will I double-down on my obsessions upon putting them into words? Or will words minimize the real effects of my thoughts and behaviors? They’re just words.
A workbook for OCD sits on my shelf, mostly unread. The table of contents lists types of OCD: contamination OCD, responsibility OCD, relationship-themed OCD, hyperawareness OCD. I am afraid to read the descriptions of each, for fear of embracing them myself. OCD is an expansive disorder, a compounding affliction.
*
I still consider myself a logical person because I am a person in parts. Part of me obsesses, worries, knocks, and taps. Part of me sees myself do such things in disbelief. Part of me knows that worrying doesn’t prevent anything from happening but in fact, increases suffering. That part knows that things often work out just because things often work out. But still, I worry.
A note in my phone offers a reminder, courtesy of my current therapist: Think of yourself in parts. Part of you is habituated to worrying. Reassure that part, as you would a friend. Reduce your suffering even if you can’t eliminate it.
*
I am a new homeowner, reading about termites online. They like crawlspaces, wood piles, areas prone to moisture.
I decide to be proactive and call a pest control company for an inspection. They agree to come this week. I worry about the possibilities while I wait for them to arrive.
But when the inspector gives me the all-clear, I feel relief.
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About the Author
Danielle Koupf lives in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, where she teaches writing and rhetoric at Wake Forest University. She earned a PhD in English from the University of Pittsburgh.