I move the books on my wall unit so they’re grouped by height. Am I being OCD, or is this just how I cope? Standing back to admire my work, I think, “Hmmm…I need a vase or a sculpture next to the books on the second shelf.” I try a red vase…too bright. Then I try a tan one…too tall. Finally I hit the jackpot with a bowl of white marble balls. I love it. I think. By tomorrow I’ll probably rearrange it again. My mind goes to the iron sculpture that would be just perfect in that spot.
I can’t stop moving things around. I arrange the dishes on the shelves in my dining room. Then I proceed to the kitchen, where I put pretty ceramic mugs in the cabinets with glass doors. It feels creative and I applaud myself when something looks great. But I do it for hours on end, and not being able to stop makes my feet hurt and convinces me that I’m seriously OCD.
But it works for me. It helps me shut out the pain that I don’t want to feel. Feeling means being upset and hearing that critical voice in my head. “How could you be so stupid?” or “Don’t be ridiculous!” Feeling means facing the guilt of being emotionally detached when my husband was dying.
Granted, I took care of all his physical needs and was an efficient, devoted wife. I drove him to his doctors appointments, administered his medication, attended to his personal hygiene and arranged for hospice when it was time. But I cut myself off emotionally. I knew that if I allowed myself to feel, I would break into a million pieces.
About two weeks before Rex died, he got up from the hospital bed in the guest room and asked if he could lay down with me in our room. “Sure,” I said, “but just for a little while, I don’t want you to fall out of bed.” He had fallen many times, and the hospital bed had side rails for just that reason. If only I had held you then, Rex, and absorbed the familiar feel of your body. I should have comforted you and reassured you and told you how much your love changed the landscape of my life.
Of course, you knew all that. And if I asked you today you’d say, “You were great, darlin’, I couldn’t have asked for more.” And yet I know I held back. I held back because I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, the one person in the world who knew my true heart. You never judged me when I was being OCD. Instead, you understood that arranging things was a distraction that got me through difficult times. You loved me, perhaps more purely, than I was able to love you.
I wish I had hung your scene designs more prominently in our home, but if they didn’t go with my “decor” they were relegated to the hall. Now they are flaunted in every single room. They remind me of all the plays we did together, and how your vision always inspired me to be a better director. I wish I had embraced your AA work with a more open heart, instead of being jealous of the time it took away from me. Check out the wall unit, Rex. I have all your sobriety chips on the bottom shelf, and you would be so proud to see them displayed.
I miss your artistic eye as I continue to rearrange my shelves. You’re the only one who could have helped me decide between the red and tan vases. Because no matter which I finally chose, you’d say, “You got that one right!” You had my back, and valued my opinion on just abut everything. But you’re not here anymore. WHY NOT?
Why do people leave when you need them the most: my mother, my father, my first shrink who committed suicide? And now you. And with you, I have lost your daughter. I have lost those wonderful Holiday Dinners with the whole blended family–my kids and grandkids, your daughter and son-in-law, and even my ex-husband and his sweet girlfriend, who we lost last summer.
Yes it hurts to feel, and that’s why I try to stay out of it. I go back to rearranging my shelves because it calms me. You can call it OCD, but for a few hours anyway, there are things in my life I can actually control.