by Emmett Smith
I Am an “OCD.”
THERE, I’ve said it.
MIND You, I do not have a “professional” diagnosis.
THOUGH I have been down and out on a number of occasions, I have never yet at any one time been “on” medical-assistance long enough fatally to fall into the clutches for good and for all, of the Inevitable & Tiresome Psychologists.
But the lingo of “ADHD” and “polyaddict” and “codependent” and so forth is in the public domain, nowadays. And, so, in our postfeminist age I have been reproved (and reviled!) on more than one occasion by the inevitable and tiresome procession of disappointed lovers, wives, girlfriends and what-have-you that any man must accumulate along the road of life these days like fleas, all for my putative (and detestable!) OCD-ness.
SUPPOSEDLY I have an obsessive-compulsive “disorder.”
THIS Is because I was beautifully brought up by an American mother and English father on Mrs Tittlemouse, and so in fact I am a most terribly particular tidy mouse myself, cannot abide disorder and flat out refuse to put up with it. I find the crunching underfoot of unswept floors particularly unwholesome — it is probably a sure sign of the soon-collapse and disappearance of the federal union and the Constitution.
What makes this sort of keen insight into our actual collective condition “detestable” of course is that I do not think of being tidy as “a problem.” It is rather the apotheosis of culture and civilization. Accordingly, various female persons in my life feel cheated out of a certain smarmy amount of belonging and sororal-feeling amidst the universal litter and fingerprints all over everything, and as though they are not getting their fair share of the general therapy-epidemic and soap-opera. Hence the resentment.
I Of course reject “therapy” because I can’t see any advantage in it. I may be “unconscious” or something, but as far as I am concerned these fool psychologists are all sound asleep at the switch and they are cheating themselves out of really big loads of “free” money from off of the insurance companies and the government. This is because they refuse to recognize plain facts — something of which they so often accuse their victim-clients.
The facts in this case are that the OCDs among us are way outnumbered by people who actually refuse keep things in order let alone clean and tidy. I myself in my household have been outnumbered as much as seventeen-to-one (counting a cat and some cockatiels at one point, plus at that same time a number of gerbils loose in the woodwork) by persons who positively cannot bear to pick up after themselves and report feeling physically ill when they hold onto a broom and dustpan or try to use toiletpaper.
I therefore want to propose to Professional Psychology a new (and insanely lucrative) diagnostic category:
THIS Is the virtually universal condition and it in fact causes an unHoly amount of misery for my much-persecuted and reviled OCD-minority.
We OCDs are the minority-victims I tell you, of the cruel burden and curse of ITBT — the (stark-staring and sulky!) Inability To Be Tidy. Everywhere loom and fleer the ITBTs, throwing stuff on the floors. The most extreme manifestation of course is ITBIAH (Inability To Be In A House) for which the only sure cure known to postmodern medicine remains, alas, shooting. But, I digress….
ITBT — Inability To Be Tidy!
IF The professional community do but adopt this hot new diagnostic category, I guarantee that they will be able to get virtually the entire population on medication and really clean up for themselves, in patient-fees alone if nothing else. So mark my words, you universal messmakers everywhere! The discovery of ITBT is the Helping-Professional Class’s dream come true. They all are going to get wrapped up in some really nice velvet for themselves now — and you skunks’ doom is at hand.
As for myself the discovery of ITBT is glad news indeed, because there is absolutely no way that I am going to seek any “therapy” for OCD whatsoever until first of all you hogs all are on pills:
BECAUSE Under the present circumstances if I were to take premature OCD-therapy, well, the only result of that would be creation of but another lost household full of wallswitch- and windowglass-smearers, not even one of whom can find the God-damn car-keys!
[Emmett R Smith all rights reserved 20 April 2007]