Devil in the Details

by Jennifer Traig

  “All scrubbed in for your big casserolectomy, Dr. Traig?” my mother asked.

  “Just doing some isometric hand exercises here,” I lied. “Every girl wants shapely wrists and well-toned fingers.”

  But the gloves, it seemed, were off. My family had politely ignored my behavior for the first few months, but now they were relentless. They began confronting me, and I began lying.

  “Is there a reason your napkin is full of meatballs?” my mother wanted to know.

  “Can you tell me why there’s an altar of pinecones in the backyard?”

  “Would you know anything about the bleach spots on the upholstery?”

  I lied more than I ever had in my life. I lied, and lied and lied. Sure, not lying was one of the Ten Commandments, and not eating meatballs wasn’t even in the top two hundred, but lying seemed preferable.

  I had to lie. My new habits were secret. I was open and honest about my other neuroses, my hypochondria and my fear that the dog could read my thoughts, but I knew this new business was something that had to stay hidden. This was impossibly weird. This wasn’t a kooky affectation, like, oh, vegetarianism. This was something they locked you up for.

  Unlike Jewish law, getting locked up was something I knew about. By age twelve I’d spent more time on a psych ward than is probably healthy for a preteen. Three years earlier, my favorite babysitter had started acting strangely, doing odd little things like refusing to eat and passing out and threatening to hurt herself, and now she was hospitalized fairly regularly. The hospital was only a block from our house, and I was permitted to visit her, on the locked ward, whenever she was there.

  This may not have been the healthiest environment for a grade-schooler. But I liked it. As far as I was concerned it was a magic forest of secondhand smoke and Thorazine, quiet and peaceful, where I could pass a happy hour watching soap operas in the lounge with the other patients. The meds made them glazed and sluggish, but they were all very nice.

  “You want a cigarette, sweetheart?” they offered. “You want some of this hard candy? Listen to me, I’m going to tell you something very important, because you’re a nice little girl. Jesus is coming, and when he does, the aliens are going to start eating people, but don’t worry, I’ll tell them to just leave you alone.”

  I’d spent so much time there, had shared their snacks and magazines. Maybe I’d caught something. Maybe I was just like them. Or maybe, and this was even scarier, maybe I was perfectly sane. Maybe the troubling thoughts weren’t coming from my own malfunctioning brain but from heaven. Maybe I was a prophet, sent to teach the people of earth to wash their hands properly. Maybe that was what was coming next. Maybe tomorrow I would wake up and feel compelled to wear a sandwich board and hand out leaflets, to yell crazy exhortations through a bullhorn.

  “Sons of Adam, use the hand soap, the liquid kind! The bar stuff just makes you dirtier!”

  “Daughters of Eve, use a paper towel to turn off the faucet! Otherwise you’ll just pick up the dirty germs you were trying to wash off in the first place!”

  It was too horrible to contemplate. In the meantime I would just keep wearing paper towels and lying. I figured I’d go on living the rest of my life this way, maybe find a job sterilizing headsets and eventually settle down with someone who found my affectations charming.

  But my family kept asking questions, and finally, after months of washing, it was time to come clean. There followed a series of many teary scenes in which I confessed to everything. The stash of first fruits, the disposable yarmulkes, the urge to lick the parquet flooring – I accounted for it all. But the explanations I offered, now true, were no less crazy than the lies I’d been telling the past few months. My family was bewildered.

  “Let me get this straight,” my father puzzled. “You’re telling me you’re acting this way because the Torah commands you to? That’s the reason? Are you sure you’re not sniffing paint? You sure you’re not just drunk?” My parents knew how to deal with grain alcohol. But what were they to do with grain offerings?

  Still, they tried. They read some articles, asked some questions. They tried to learn the lingo my new lifestyle would require, words like parve, milchig, and treyf. My mother mastered these in no time but continued to insist on calling Shabbat the Sabbath, which I didn’t like at all. It sounded so Puritan, so seventeenth-century, and I worried that next she’d be calling me Goody Traig.

  As it was, she liked to pretend I was Howard Hughes. “Those toenails are coming in nicely, How,” she trilled. “Soon they’ll be long enough to clack against the linoleum and we’ll be able to hear you coming. Now stay right there, I’m going to go clean the canned fruit with Handi Wipes and fix you a snack.”

  I didn’t care for the flip tone, but if that was the trade-off, that was fine. If the price of getting to act crazy was having my family think I actually was crazy, that was okay, so long as I didn’t have to stop washing furniture and binding sheaves. It was so liberating, not having to hide and lie and pretend any longer. My family continued to badger and restrict me, but now I could argue with them openly. It was almost fun, almost funny.

  “Why won’t you wear the new dress we bought for you?” my father wanted to know.

  “Because it is written: Thou shalt not garb thyself in robes of hybrid fibers.”

  “I think mayhap thou hast misunderstood,” my father returned. “Now rise up, return to thy quarters, and garb thyself as thine elders commandest thee, or thou will lose thy Bible-reading privileges.”

  Still, they let a lot of things go. It wasn’t so much that they approved, or even accepted it, but they were amused. I was wearing paper hats and talking to the bookcases. It was sad and annoying, but it was also fairly entertaining, and we didn’t have cable. I had become the Jenny Show, a kooky sitcom, wacky high jinks twenty-four hours a day. Sure, I mostly aired repeats, but I was the only thing on.

  But it was always the same rerun, and things quickly got out of hand. It’s a short journey from giving up bacon to deciding you shouldn’t bite your nails because the protein that composes them might have come from pork. The washing became incessant, the prayers never-ending. Things seemed okay for a month or two.

  Then suddenly we were in the laundry room and all my belongings were floating in detergent. Suddenly we were having a crisis.

  I imagine there were conferences, hushed discussions between my parents, consultations with psychologist friends, calls to relatives. What were they to do with me? There was no precedent. They couldn’t discipline me by taking away the things I loved; I’d already taken them away myself. Grounding me was pointless. And I actually liked being sent to my room.

  In the end my parents came up with a plan as pragmatic and no-nonsense as they are: they drew up a contract. The terms were clear and simple. I was permitted to wash my hands after bathroom visits and at no other time. I could pray up to an hour a day, but not if I was going to do the weird head-patting thing. I could keep Shabbat, but I would not be allowed to ruin the day for everyone else. I could not proselytize. I could not supervise my mother’s cooking. I could not rewash clean dishes, clothes, or body parts. Furthermore, to reverse the damage I’d done with overzealous scouring, I was now required to use emollients. I may have been the only twelve-year-old girl in the world who was contractually obligated to moisturize and deep condition and wear Lip Smackers.

  If I failed to do any of these things, the contract stipulated that all my friends would be informed of my idiosyncrasies. The mouth-scrubbing, the altar-building, the praise-dancing – they would learn about it all and would be encouraged to share it with whomever they liked. My sister requested that an amendment be added providing that she be the one to inform them all, and my parents granted it as a reward for being so patient with me all these months.

  I don’t know why this worked. The only thing my parents were threatening was embarrassment, and I’d been embarrassing myself daily for close to a year. Maybe I’d just had enough, or maybe I knew that as
much as I could torture myself, my classmates were capable of much worse. Would they ridicule me with a Carrie-style dousing in 409? I didn’t want to find out.

  And so I stopped. I’m sure there must have been months and months of tapering and adjustment, but I don’t recall any of it. I don’t remember getting better or struggling with impulses. There was no counseling and no drugs. This time, this first time, I just stopped. I still prayed, still avoided pork and stayed in on Saturdays, but the allure of scrutinizing ingredients and purifying vessels was gone. Over the next six years, the scrupulosity would beckon again and again, shiny and exciting, and I would submit to the inevitable relapses. But this time I just stopped.

  In Judaism someone who becomes religious is called a baal tshuva – a master of repentance, or, literally, a master of returning, of circling back. I liked the name because it seemed so apt. I circled. I was a master of circling, a pacer, a ruminator, caught in my neural loops. For the next few years, I would circle back to scrupulosity, then back to sanity, then back and forth again. Eventually I ended up sane but religious, baal tshuva in the ordinary sense.

  The continuation of my religious practice was a huge disappointment to my family, who’d greeted my initial interest in Judaism with a withering caveat: “You can pray all you want, but we’re not going to stop eating pork.” They are the family that bacon built – friends sometimes call us the Traifs – and they could never comprehend my rejection of their staple food and lifestyle. They had raised me to express my Jewishness by renting Woody Allen movies, not by keeping kosher and observing Shabbat.

  When I was at my sickest, they painted a dark picture of what my future as an observant Jew would entail: “You will marry a man who wears knickers and a fur hat, and when you are out in public passersby will laugh at you. He will make you shave your head and wear a wig so unattractive that people will think it was assembled from squirrel hides. The only restaurants you’ll patronize will be cheerless establishments where you will be insulted by rude Israeli waiters and forced to pay exorbitant prices for gray, leathery brisket. Because all your time will be spent in synagogue, you will never, ever have a tan. You will wear frumpy skirts, socks with sandals, and you’ll never enjoy corn dogs, shellfish, or drinkable wine.” How crushed they were when I got better only to keep up this ridiculous religious practice. They had hoped I would come to my senses and join the rest of them at the clambake.

  I never did, but things turned out okay anyway. They were wrong about the fur hats and the bad food. The tan, however – they nailed that one on the head.

  INTERSTITIAL

  A GUIDE TO PROPER HAND-WASHING TECHNIQUE

  Did you know that your hands are loaded with bacteria and other contaminants? They’re filthy! They spread disease! Oh, it’s just awful. And it’s not scientifically possible to sterilize your hands. You can, however, get them really, really clean. Here’s how!

  First, you need to get some water going. We want it hot, hot, hot! The hot-water tap is contaminated, but that’s okay, because you’re about to wash. Touch it again, just to show how brave you are. Touch it one more time. Three taps wards off bad things. Now we’re ready to wash!

  Next, choose your poison. What kind of soap is for you? Bar soap is out; other people have probably used it (a possibility too horrible to contemplate), and even if it’s unopened it’s made from animal fats, which is revolting. The whole thing just seems so dirty. Liquid soap it is! Choose an anti-bacterial formula if you’re worried about contamination from germs. If you’re worried about contamination from death, choose dishwashing liquid. It’s so death-free it’s safe to use on plates and flatware! But only if it’s BRAND-NEW. Even then, you never know. Okay, let’s skip the soap altogether. Plain water will be fine.

  Rub your hands together vigorously and scrub, scrub, scrub. The Centers for Disease Control recommend you wash your hands for ten seconds, but what do they know? If they’re such geniuses why do people still get hepatitis? A full minute, minimum. How about this: you keep your hands under that tap until you answer the philosophical question ‘Is water clean?’

  I don’t know if water is clean. What if water isn’t clean? What if water just makes you dirtier?

  You’ll wash and wash and wash but you’ll never be safe.

  Okay, try not to think about it. Let’s just say water is clean and move on.

  But what if it’s not clean?

  We’re moving on. This next part is tricky. Your hands are clean – but they’re wet. How to get them dry without getting them dirty again? The air-dry technique is best. Sure, it’s slow, but it’s safe. Simply hold your hands in the air until they’re completely dry. Be sure not to touch anything! If you touch something, or if for some reason you think you maybe touched something, go back to Step 1. Yes, let’s go back to Step 1 just to be safe.

  Now we’re in a hurry. You’re going to have to dry your hands with paper napkins. That’s fine. Just make sure it’s a new package. Did you touch the part of the package that was sealed with glue? Is that glue? Glue is dirty. Wash again, just to be safe, then dry your hands on a napkin that absolutely for sure didn’t touch the glue.

  Use a napkin to turn off the tap and another napkin to open the door on the way out. Some people won’t even touch the door with a napkin; they’ll just wait until somebody comes to open the door for them. But they’re crazy!

  ∨ Devil in the Details ∧

  Devil in the Details: A Primer

  Every mental illness has its pros and cons, but for all-around appeal, you can’t beat OCD. It’s not as colorful as multiple personality disorder or as exhilarating as bipolarity, but for consistent amusement, it’s your best bet. It’s not a bad one, as mental illnesses go. Obsessive-compulsives make great party guests. With our droll little quirks, we provide plenty of conversation material, and we’re sure to help clean up afterward. In fact, we’ll probably start washing the glassware halfway through the first round and may return three hours after the party has ended to bleach down the floors. Except for the tedium, the time commitment, and the incessant badgering, we’re a riot.

  We are legion, an army of millions. Though most of us will go to any length to hide our compulsions, we recognize one another. The guy using a paper towel to turn the restroom doorknob, the child counting his eyelashes, the old man wearing Kleenex boxes for shoes – these are my brothers. We are a secret tribe. We’re like Freemasons, except that our secret handshake is followed by a vigorous washing session.

  The mystery is how one becomes a member. No one knows precisely what causes the disease. In the past it was blamed variously on demon possession, bad parenting, fluid retention and – my favorite – constipation. The theory, I suppose, is that your head might clear once you’ve crapped your brains out. The invention of psychoanalysis brought an end to the stake burnings and enemas but did not lend the disorder any new dignity. Freud held that sufferers were stunted in the anal-sadistic phase. Nice.

  This was the prevailing theory when my OCD first surfaced. I was three; I probably was stuck in the anal-sadistic phase. But I didn’t know anything about that, or care. I was too busy satisfying the compulsive urges that sprang out of my nervous system and commanded me to do things like poke the tomato plant with a stick and sit on the baby. These activities didn’t seem to arouse much concern from my parents. Soft and plump and cosseted in double knit, my sister could easily be mistaken for a beanbag. As for the tomato plant, it probably deserved a good poking. “That’s right, honey, you show that plant who’s boss,” my mother encouraged. “Say, sweetheart, is that your sister under your backside? If you’re going to sit on her face, just make sure that either her nose or mouth is clear. Okay?”

  These compulsions seemed to pass for normal. My compulsion to swat furniture, less so. This was impossible to ignore or explain. It drove everyone crazy, but I couldn’t stop. Twenty or thirty times during the course of a meal, I would hop out of my seat, spin around, smack the bookshelf behind my chair, then spin back
. It was not an activity I particularly enjoyed. While I was spanking the furniture, my cereal was getting soggy, my sister was eating my bacon, and my parents were expanding my vocabulary with a series of increasingly profane threats. “Sweet mother of crap, Jennifer. What did the bookcase ever do to you? If you’re going to smack anything, smack your sister. She’s the one who’s eating all your bacon.”

  A good idea, but it was like scratching your left leg when your right one itches; only the bookcase would do. Next came threats. “You jump up one more time and you’ll be taking the rest of the meal with your hands taped to that damn bookcase,” my parents warned. “We’ll give you a straw and you can drink your Cheerios.” I scowled, sulked, spun around some more. Didn’t they know this wasn’t any fun for me, either? Didn’t they understand I didn’t want to do these things? Couldn’t they see?

  Maybe it’s best they didn’t. Had I been diagnosed, I could have been treated with high colonics and Valium, things that, though fun, are really wasted on a child. OCD was just so poorly understood at the time. It’s only in the last fifteen years that there’s been a shift toward biology. Now we know OCD is a brain disorder, related to Tourette’s syndrome, that originates in the basal ganglia, the gray clump of cells in the center of the brain. I imagine them as a rat-shaped cluster, its tail tickling my nervous system. The analogy seems fitting given the rodentlike characteristics of the disorder. OCD sufferers are like hamsters on treadmills, all industrious activity with nothing to show for it. If we were compelled to turn windmills or crank generators rather than alphabetize the canned goods, we could solve the energy crisis.