A Day in the Life

my battle with OCD (started sophomore year and just now completed)

 I live my life in a series of fives, tens and fifteens,

Carry out my actions in threes, 

            Lights off, on, off, on, off. . . okay. . .

Undress in the same way, first the shirt, unbutton from top to bottom, miss a button start again;

Then the socks, left foot first, the pants follow left leg akin;

Then the underclothes;

All discarded in a folded pile at the foot of my neatly made bed, hand-delivered to my basement

the following morning.

Brush my teeth then eat, why? Don't ask me, I don't know it just feels. . . right. . .

            I dress pants first, right leg then left, socks and shoes before my shirt, buttoned from

bottom to top, miss a button start again.

My bed remade as I am now clothed, remove the sheets entirely before I fix them.

To the bathroom then I undress to shower, done in the same way as the preceding night;

Turn the knob two-thirds the way, no more no less, enter right foot then left;

Shampoo three times then the rest thrice as well,

            Retrieve my neatly folded towel from the toilet seat, dry from top to bottom.

Brush my teeth twice more, thrice is good and well, shave, then comb my hair, part left as

always,

            Dress again akin to the normal routine;

            Retie my shoes until the bow sits neat, deliver my towel to the washroom, folded in the

same manner.

Take three pieces of gum from the container on my desk covered in neatly stacked papers,

Exactly 15$ in my wallet;

Sit in my computer chair, precisely two feet off the ground,

Dirty shirt? Change the pants and socks as well.

 

Our dinner date? Polo shirt, buttoned three; get in the car right foot first, lock the doors then turn

the ignition on, off, on, off, on. . . okay. . .

Parked backwards in my grey garage; from park to drive to neutral: roll down the hill, it saves

gas.

Parallel part ten feet from your mailbox though your drive is empty, turn the ignition off, on, off, on, off. . . okay. . .

Adjust my shirt then exit left foot first, approach your door; left, right, left �" breathe Thomas.

I procure the single, pristine rose that occupied my passenger seat, adjust the petals for symmetry;

I knock thrice three times on your wooden door: knock-knock-knock, knock-knock-knock,

 knock-knock-knock;

You open the door smiling, I hand you the rose: left hand to right;

            Lead you to the car, unlock then open your door, close it - slammed too loud, let's try

again.

            Walk around the back of the car, enter right foot then left, on, off, on, off, on from park to

drive and then we leave.

 

Arrive in the same manner, park perfectly in the spot with no car on either side, spend two

minutes adjusting.

You remain seated as I open your door for you, take your hand and help you out, right foot then

left is the way to go.

            Rose in your right hand, my right in your left, leading yours as our fingers intertwine we

walk towards the foyer �"

You lock the car, beeps thrice �"

I lead you carefully to avoid the cracks, I hold the door for you then close it quietly, too loud?

 Try again.

We reach our table, directly in the center of the room, two chairs and a round top, I pull your

chair out for you and adjust it so it is even.

            We sit and you open the menu but I rearrange my silverware, forks to the right hand

spoons and knife to the left;

            Napkin folded neatly beneath my pristine plate, folded isosceles.

My water with exactly five pieces of ice in it one lemon without seeds, no straw,

We eat, leftovers organized precisely in a paper box we return to your house as is the usual way,

I leave you with a kiss on the lips, head cocked forty-five degrees and yours reflects to make

Ninety.

 

Home I return, a message assuring my safety to help you sleep followed by three words said

 thrice:

 

"I love you, I love you, I love you..."

 

Undress in the same way, first the shirt, unbutton from top to bottom, miss a button start again;

Then the socks, left foot first, the pants follow left leg akin;

Then the underclothes;

All discarded in a folded pile from the foot of my neatly made bed, hand-delivered to my

basement the following morning.

Author's Note

Capitalization used obsessively in places I deemed it a necessity

Should I use less repetition?

Reviews

[Dogbomb3]

Loved it. This reminds me of a great short story I recently read called Being David about an OCD sufferer. Perhaps it could be even more effective as a short and even more repetitive excerpt.