Don't Mind Me, It's My OCD by Breana Ritchie

Author:Breana Ritchie
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mental health, obsessive compulsive disorder, compulsive behavior, anxiety and phobias, overcoming ocd, fear of germs, obsessive thoughts, ocd humor, ocd memoir, ocd symptoms
Publisher: Breana Ritchie

Driving Me Nuts!

One of my goals is to be a thoughtful, rule-abiding, road-rage-free driver. I let many cars have the right-of-way, rarely go over the speed limit, and only honk, bellow, or flash an obscene gesture if someone is obnoxious or negligent. I am, however, an obsessive-compulsive driver. I may be cruising along enjoying the drive with the wind in my hair but if a garbage truck pulls up beside me, I scramble to turn off the outside air and close the windows. I have no doubt maggots or mutant bugs will scuttle out of the truck and into my car through the windows or air vents. On our biannual jaunts to Cedar Point amusement park in Ohio, my sister and I were not amused having to drive past nuclear power plants along the route. They were so ominous with deadly looking white smoke billowing from the towers, and we’d close the air vents and hold our breath to the point of seeing spots in hopes of staving off radiation poisoning. Those were the times I felt justified in speeding. It was either that or our lungs bursting.

I have a fear of running over things. If I drive near a construction site or down a side alley, I’m certain I’ll end up with a punctured tire from stray nails or screws. When I run over a plastic bag, alarm sets in as I envision it stuck or melted to the undercarriage, wreaking havoc and causing costly repairs. If I drive by the scene of an accident, I’m sure I have glass embedded in my tires, waiting to penetrate the rubber until I’m whizzing along on the freeway. Although I drive with extreme caution around bicyclists, I know I’ve knocked them off the road and into the ditch. I hyperventilate until they appear unscathed in my rearview mirror. Other times I’m paranoid I’ve run over something—but what exactly? Sometimes an eerie shadow leaps out at me, or my wheels catch a slight bump, or I discern something flapping in the breeze. I can’t ignore it, fearing the unknown, and return to the scene to check it out. It’s never been a body, thank goodness. Most of the time it’s a fallen branch, or a paper bag filled with the remains of a litterbug’s lunch, or a hapless bird or squirrel flattened into the pavement.

Locating a decent parking spot takes me forever. If I find an extra-roomy space to parallel park, it will take me several tries, at which point I exit the car to make sure I parked an appropriate distance from the curb and any driveways. If I’m a little crooked, or a hair in the red zone, or too close to another car for my comfort, I adjust as many times as necessary for fear of getting a ticket—or dinged when someone pulls out of their spot. I trudge around the car once more and look back several times in case it moved while I wasn’t looking. I study the parking signs until I’m sure it’s okay to park there and read them again for good measure.

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