Divergence in an Upsetting World

I don’t cope well with change. OCD is my constant companion and I need to keep it happy at all times. It likes plenty of notice and routine, and predictability. I was diagnosed as a child, so it’s nothing new to me, but it becomes much more complex in the life of an adult. I had an appointment cancelled this week, and it felt like the world was ending. I’d had it booked for months. I have to schedule my appointments at regular intervals, or I toss and turn on my memory foam mattress, worrying all night long. The hairdresser doesn’t get it. She says she can only slot me in when they’re “free.” I try my best to ensure I get appointments whenever I need them, but this time, everything went to pot.

I got a phone call on Wednesday morning. I never answer unknown numbers, but this one came up under the name of my hairdressing salon. I thought they’d be phoning with an update about something minor, but they said they had to cancel my appointment. There was a leak in the roof of the salon, and they were in the process of mopping the excess water up. I pictured a few drops, but they said it was like the aftermath of a tsunami. I thought that was an enormous exaggeration, but they had to excuse themselves somehow. They don’t know how much that kind of thing rattles me. It upsets my entire month. I stare at my haircut in the bathroom mirror. It has spotlights in there, so you can see every split end. I stand, looking myself in the eye and wallowing in despair. I can’t go elsewhere either. My condition won’t allow it. I have my one hairdresser, and God help me if she decides to have any children because her period of maternity leave would upturn my entire existence, not to mention destroying my hair. The haircut is simple enough – short back and sides, but it must be done with precision, with the same pair of scissors, stationed in the same seat.

I can’t even consider going to a different hairdresser. They might do it differently and I won’t be able to settle myself. The discomfort of the wrong haircut feels like leeches making a trail up my neck and circling my skull. It’s a feeling so horrible it’s hard to find a fitting simile. I tried to distract myself that day, from sitting, waiting beside the phone, willing it to ring with my cancelled cancellation.

People always talk about the main life events – births, deaths, marriages, illnesses. For me, the everyday things have the power to be just as catastrophic when they don’t follow my carefully composed plan. I sat, brushing my hair with my palm, feeling the texture that comes with extra length. I hate that feeling. It’s like bristles growing on a piece of satin.

I couldn’t think of a single thing to make myself feel better, but I knew I had to find something big. Any therapist I’ve been to has suggested “coping mechanisms,” and I’ve just laughed at them, like they’re a quack. We never do leave the appointment better friends than we were before it started. I’ve been told I’m difficult, but they don’t know how difficult it is for me to live with myself. What they have to deal with for a mere moment is nothing compared to that.

I started to format a list of all my concerns. I was writing feverishly, and they were pouring out the pen tip onto the waiting page. The hairdressing ones were top of the list. Maybe to anyone else, they’d be a footnote, but to me they’re the main body of the text. I wrote and wrote and wrote by the light of a candle. I was alone with the shadows climbing my walls. We were trying to escape our confinement together, but there wasn’t much hope for any of us. The flame of the candle wavered, but my pen never did. I was clear about what was bothering me. As soon as I was finished, I tore the piece of paper into tiny pieces, and I torched the fragments on the candle. Then I sprinkled the ash around me, like emptying an urn. The mess of everything was visible in front of me and I felt better. I could still feel the annoyance in the hairs on my head, but it was lessened inside my brain.

I left the ash there. It was still smouldering, which was probably a bit dangerous, but it was a thrill too. I never broke any rules or made a mess of things. Only other people did that. I got a glimpse what it was like to feel like I was diverging from the fixed route. It felt addictive. I wanted to take it further, but I didn’t. I was toying with danger without doing it to a dangerous degree. The room glowed in the low light. The day was ending, and I had made it through in one piece, thanks only to my new-found ritual. I couldn’t stop the unwanted actions of others, but I could destroy them in physical form. I went to bed that night with a clear head and feeling of quietude. That’s something I never get, so it was remarkable.

The next morning, the sun came up and brought with it an array of new nuisances. It’s hard to avoid them in this imperfect world. The hairdresser phoned me to reschedule my missed appointment. It wouldn’t be on the exact weekday I wanted, but it was better than worrying about it for another month. That was resolved, but nothing stays resolved for long. An hour later, I found out that my food delivery was missing several items. I started to get into a sad state over it, but then I remembered the new ritual I’d found, and I sat down at the table, ready to burn away some more woes. I might have burnt the house down, but it was worth the risk – saying goodbye to angst over that unfilled shopping list.