Ruinous Bitch of a Disease. Saturday 5/19

So it seems that since I have a problem with meat,
being a veg-head, and also having those lovely contamination
fears, I am not the best candidate for a cookout invitation.
Everyone loves to cookout in the summer: grill stuff, eat
outdoors, drink beer, throw the football/frisbee, etc. It’s
an American pastime, you might say. I loved cookouts
when I was a teenager, mostly because they were always
held on the deck at my aunt’s house, the redwood deck
right beside the nice in-ground pool. My cousins & I
would just swim and eat all day long, long into the night,
swimming by the light of the torches, hanging out with
our friends. Now, I have come to hate them. Loathe them.
It’s not because I don’t like to eat meat: It’s because
I can’t stand the sight of it. It’s because I am terrified
that I will touch something that it has touched, that whoever
is doing the grilling has not washed his hands, or has not
taken the precautions that I would have taken. Ah — wait —
there they are, ‘what if’ thoughts. There are a million of
them associated with cooking for me, and in particular raw
meat. I even hate that word, meat. Oh the associations
abound. So, although I would like to hang out whenever
these cookouts are happening, I find that I am so concerned
with contaminations that I cannot enjoy myself, and just
end up leaving in defeat, rushing home to begin washing
and decontaminating myself.
So tonight, my neighbor invites me over. Him and
some friends, all of whom I know, are hanging out. So I
walk over to his place, only to see that they are grilling stuff.
At first, I was dismayed: but then I thought, well, it’s ok, I
can just hang out, it will be fine. My neighbor was more
affectionate tonight, having had several beers already, so
he was hugging me and touching me more than usual. Now,
I’m familiar with him, have known him for a while now,
so I’m ok with his brand of affection. But immediately,
the bad thoughts start in on me, and I could not make
myself comfortable. I didn’t want to sit in any of his chairs:
I didn’t want to touch anything, I didn’t even want to walk
on the ground where all this was happening. My cat Walker
had come over with me, and so I started getting thoughts about
what he might touch or get into as well.... So I didn’t stay
long, even though I wanted to, because the damn ocd would
not SHUT UP! I left by 9pm, all because the anxiety and
obsessions would not stop. Shame too, considering how
unbelievably hot my neighbor is, and how affectionate he
was tonight. It’s times like these that I get really angry,
when the thought crosses my mind: What has this
ridiculous shit of a disease made me miss out on? What
all do I have to avoid in order to live with it? What the
hell am I missing out on?
I told the guys I had to go home and take a shower.
They just laughed, not to be mean, but they don’t
really understand. I had to alcohol-swab my door handles,
inside & out, had to wipe down my shoes with one of
those clorox wipes, I had to take a thirty-minute shower,
in which I must have washed my hands about twenty
times. And did any of this ease my anxiety? Only
slightly. A lot of effort for very little gain.
So I retreat into my apartment, retreat into
soaps and antiseptics and antibacterial gels. I sit at
home on a Saturday night, instead of being with
other people, having a drink, having a good time,
having a life. So I am angry. But at who? Am I
angry with myself for reacting in a negative way?
Or am I angry that I have to deal with this stupid
shit at all? Can I be angry at a disease? The
answer to that last question doesn’t matter,
because I am angry with this disease. I reserve
the right to be angry with it for as long as it
plagues my life. I will be angry as long as I
have to complete these rituals over and over.
I will be angry that every night, I have to coat my
hands in vitamin E oil, so that my shredded, worn
skin can recover.