ocd vs plastics

today's ocd clean was a bit of improv.  walking the breaker wall between foster & monstrose beaches, spy a shelf filled with detritus, so out with the materials:  gloves, trashbag, patience.  the sorting is impossibly tiny, as foam of all types (styro, polystyrene, fill foam, insulation) is chunked up amidst the natural flotsam of driftwood, bark, feather, straw, dried seaweed, etc.  this is all leavened by shredded straws, kite string, balloon ribbon, plastic forks, chip bags, and of course, bottlecaps.  every type shape and make of cap for every bottle you can imagine, from the humble disposable water bottle to milk caps to pill bottles to wine corks-- every size conceivable, plus washers, pull tabs, and sundry seals for all the aforementioned

it is no exaggeration to say the scale of the task is barely conceivable.  it takes forty five minutes to clear a twelve-foot stretch of breaker shelf, going through all the middens of flotsam & jetsam.  there was one dead fish, a goodsized fucker.  surprisingly few glass bottles.  one tequila bottle, one agave, some broken basic beers.  a pair of sunworshippers thank me for taking the time & ask if i'm with a crew.  "no," i tell them, "this is just how i manage my ocd"

it's true.  at multiple points i found myself wondering why i was doing it.  and why i couldn't stop.  but it's what i do.  i just finished sweeping & vacuuming the house.  same syndrome.  i just get started and it's fuck you, entropy.  there's no real choice in it, for me, beyond picking a starting point

i can't remember who it was that first identified the issue.  probably christian wanakmaker & charlie bennett.  i was living with them at the house of slack, in atlanta.  the fuckers were confirmed bachelors and a total wreck when it came to basic upkeep.  they relied on my couchsurfing ass to keep them from rotting.  one day i found out my father was going to be passing through atlanta, and i thought i'd make an effort.  so i started cleaning.  did christian or charlie try to help?  no.  they just... watched me.  remarking on my obsessive-compulsive disorder, with amusement.  treating it like a novelty.  my father showed up and i wasn't done, and i couldn't stop myself, either, so i kept hacking at the kitchen, bathrooms, and floors.  christian & charlie were genial hosts, chatted with him for a bit.  i completed all my tasks at last and spent ten, fifteen minutes talking with the man i hadn't seen in six years, and then he headed on his way

my "friends" and roomies kept making little remarks about my ocd afterward.  at no point thanking me.  i've gotten the same treatment from coworkers and exes, over the intervening decades.  it used to rankle me, peeps calling me obsessive-compulsive.  "does this happen often?" a co-worker may ask, seeing me losing my mind.  but they generally don't offer to help.  they just watch.  it is what it is

i did get a formal diagnosis for o.c.d. sometime around 2013, or so.  for what that's fuckin' worth.  but it was my so-called best friends who named it.  bugged the shit out of me, at the time.  i didn't like the label.  now it's just something i do