OCs! (Conclusion)

By Emmanuelle

The following notes are from research on Obsessive Compulsive Disorder conducted within the two weeks this article took to be written:

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) is not choosy. It strikes people from all walks of life, male or female. Or child. Symptoms may start at an early age, even before adolescence, and may often stay undiagnosed or misdiagnosed, mistaken for autism, or other development disorders.

And as the child matures, OCD does not disappear by itself. It is chronic. If left untreated, it worsens as the Obsessive Compulsive sufferer (OCs!) gets older; but, if treated while the OCs is still young, the symptoms may not get any worse. Life for the sufferer and the people around will then be much easier.

OCD does not result from a chemical imbalance in the brain. Neither is it a result of bad parenting or personality defects. A sufferer is not relieved by psychoanalysis or other forms of “talk therapy”; but recent evidence show that behavior therapy with or without medication can be effective, because a study of OC sufferers came out with the observation that the OCs know and  can say the reason why they have obsessive thoughts or  why they behave compulsively. Just the same, though, the obsessive thoughts and the compulsive behaviors continue.

OCD might be a physical condition as people whose brains were injured sometimes develop obsessive compulsion. Clinic research had discovered a strong link between OCD and a brain chemical called serotonin, a neurotransmitter that help nerve cells communicate.  Researchers have also observed that people with OCD have increased metabolism in the basal ganglia and the frontal lobes of the brain. This, the scientists believe, causes repetitive movements, rigid thinking, and lack of spontaneity. Successful treatment with medication or behavior therapy produces a decrease in the over activity of this brain circuitry.

And so we come to the story that moved this writer to write about OCD. You see, she knows about this couple, married for nearly ten years, but still childless. She not only knew them, she lived with them for quite awhile.

She didn’t have to be a psychologist, a psychoanalyst or a psychiatrist. Obviously, glaringly so, this couple are obsessive compulsive sufferers.

Wifey works as manager nine-to-five in one of the more trusted commercial banks. Husband is a college professor holding night classes in a private institution, almost as good as the eagle flies or the archer arches.

When wifey comes home after five give-and-take three hours for traffic, she unlocks the front door, and sighs her most heartbreaking buntung-hininga. The living room is too-lived-in, dinner leftovers and food trails congeal on the table, on the sofa, on cushions, on comforter. Husband dear was again sleepless and spent last night changing channels. The kitchen is a mess from breakfast rush. The bedroom and the bathroom are just as messy. Moldy, too.

She prepares dinner. While the pots  are frying, stewing and boiling, while the husband is still in school that is not the eagle’s nor the archer’s, she gets down to honest housekeeping business. Floor gets mopped, dust gets swiped, cushion gets bopped, sheets get whacked, and no more sticky blobs.

While dinner cools, she too cools in the bathroom. As she freshens up, she looks around. She breathes in her collection of all scents – bottles and brands of shampoos, conditioners, perfumes, colognes – unopened, half-full, near empty, emptied. On open shelves, safely locked in cabinets, bottle decors hung from ceiling or arranged on surfaces. 

Husband dear arrives.  He unlocks the front door, and sighs his most heartbreaking buntung-hininga. The living room is too clean, too neat, he’ll get sick. He throws his briefcase, he rumples the rug, disarranges the cushions. He dances to the kitchen, brings out unmatched plates, opens the fridge, spoons out cold leftovers unto plates and glasses.

He’s getting warm, he’s getting there. The bedroom gets the whirl of the wind next. There is order in disorder, he sings. He jumps on the bed, scatters his clothes as he undresses. He uses his fork, his spoon to make music on wifey’s endless soldiers of bottles standing still.

Wifey comes out, looks at the mess that is her husband. And the room. And the rest of the house.

Guess who came to dinner to settle the mess.  

(Readers may reach columnist at jingmil@yahoo.com. For past columns, click http://sundaypunch.prepys.com/archives/category/opinion/feelings/
For reactions to this column, click “Send MESSAGES, OPINIONS, COMMENTS” on default page.)

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