Pageant Question: If you had to spend the rest of your life eating one thing, what would it be?

It's not about being clean.  It's not even about germs, though for some people they make it about germs because it doesn't sound as crazy.  It's not about being a perfectionist, either.  It's compulsion, but not in any logical way.  It's magical thinking without even a hint of purpose.  It's called Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, or OCD.  I have a friend who brags she has OCD because she likes her desk at work to be "just so."  That's not OCD.

OCD is putting away a glass over and over and over.  Trying to set it back in the cupboard, but having to reset it.  Then turn it a little, but you've turned it too far and now you must turn it back, but that's not right, either.  Don't you remember, I said it wasn't about perfection!  The glass doesn't need to be set in the exact spot because it's level with the other glasses or because now it is smudged or for any other logical reason.  It's because... it's just not right.  It didn't feel right.  It wouldn't be okay to leave it because it's wrong, so I have to do it again.  Try again.  Try again.  It's not right.  Try again.

Yes, I've tried to walk away, but the idea of it being wrong comes back.  My steps slow and I feel myself pulled back to the cupboard and the glass that just isn't quite right.  Compelled to come back.  Obsessed with trying to get it to feel right.

For me, it's the vague idea of "bad luck" that makes me want to make it right.  My house is not super clean.  It's not neat.  It's not anal, which is what you're picturing, and what my friend really is.  I start walking with my right foot, and if it doesn't feel like it did it right, I start again.  And again.  You get the picture.  I looked at a weird spot and now I must blink my eyes and look away and furrow my brow and sniff it away.  What made it a weird spot?  Nothing.  Don't you understand yet?  Nothing!  There is no reason.

There was also no reason for me to start scraping my teeth against the wood window sills in my apartment, rubbing the shavings against the roof of my mouth, until I'd chewed them down as far as my nose would let me, pressed against the glass.  No reason except I had to, or else.  Or else what?!?  Nothing!  Or else nothing.  But I didn't stop.

98

Being with others never became easier. They clung. Their smells lingered. Their faces hung behind closed eyes and their voices repeated and repeated. How many people were too many? It would depend on how the gathering went. One perceived misstep could linger, well, forever, as far as Mary knew. There were episodes from her elementary school days that still replayed on bad nights. She was getting better at recognizing when these moments were happening, though she was still powerless to stop them. Mary would know the instant it was over that it was an interaction that would haunt her.

91

Hamlet lived in a small world. His possessions were neatly organized in his room, mostly in shoe boxes and baggies. He carried what he needed for the day in a stiff, brightly-colored backpack. Hamlet's clothes were varied, but all looked like each other and were always well pressed. His sandwiches were small with the crusts cut off.

The bus arrived promptly between 3 and 3:15. Hamlet boarded, swiped his bus pass and sat in the middle, deftly swinging his backpack from his shoulders and holding it firmly in his lap. He looked around and noticed only details.