So the other day I was watching TV (sad, I know), and it was probably that show with Detective Stabler, such a douche (he’s not real, I can call him that and not hurt his feelings), and the cops were searching someone’s apartment, and they opened the kitchen cupboard, and the dishes were all arranged neatly, and they declared the person OCD.
Obsessive. Compulsive. Disordered.
Bite. My. Butt.
My kitchen cabinets have mostly always looked pretty much like those of the mad rapist they were calling OCD (his raped and murdered victims weren’t very neat, at all), and it’s not because I’m obsessive, or compulsive, and it sure as hell isn’t because I’m disordered.
I’m tidy. In my world, there’s a place for everything, and if everything is in its place, it’s really easy to find. I don’t have to go digging through piles of chaos every time I want to interact with something that lives with me.
Once upon a time, cleanliness was pretty big in my world, too, and it even still is, to some degree, except now I’m blind as a bat and so can’t always see things like how clean I’ve gotten those dishes that will be neatly arranged back into their place in the cupboard after I’ve washed them. Or not.
The or not is part of the story, I’ll get there.
But it wasn’t obsessive or compulsive cleanliness, that which I maintained, it was simply about the fact that I often get dirty, and then everything I touch or interact with tends to get dirty, too, I’m kind of a sloppy cook and eater, and we don’t even want to get into tracking earth everywhere when the shoes don’t slip off easily, and when there’s a man (or woman) or two in the house who aren’t ordered, so they’re the freaking disordered ones, not me, and during open windows season, when there’s pollen around, well, cleaning has to happen, at least in my world, and if one works full time+ the cleaning often has to happen when it has to happen, and there’s nothing obsessive or compulsive about it.
I looked both of those words up, to make sure. I didn’t need to look up disorder, it’s a no brainer.
And I don’t even need to test any hypothesis about whether or not I’m OCD, because as I live on the road, when I live in a place, I move in for a week or more and just trash it, dirty nearly every dish, strew stuff hither and yon, cast dirty laundry about, and live comfortably in utter chaos until I tidy and blindly clean it all up in preparation for moving out.
Diagnoses irritate me almost as much as taxonomy does. Disorder, well, it happens.