OK so maybe it's me...

Today was a breakthrough day with my physician. I have been officially labeled. LOL!

Apparently I have a FORM of obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD). Much is left unknown about several of the classifications that fall under this disorder.

I suppose it should have been clear from the start, but so much was not known that I grew up just being me.

• As a child, I didn't just count my steps on each piece of concrete sidewalk to make sure I had the same number of right footsteps as left, I got very upset and felt like something really bad would happen or I'd done something wrong if I went into a building before I had the same number of each (even if it meant hopping on one foot).
• I wash my hands more than anyone I know. When I was younger and I played piano I had to first wash and dry both my hands and the keys, then do it again between every song. It took me hours to practice, not because I wanted to practice, but because half of that time was spent washing my hands, drying my hands (they cannot be sticky dry) and the keys on the piano. I've transferred that to keeping a bottle of rubbing alcohol and cotton pads in the computer room and at work to clean my computer mouse and keys every few hours or so. I have to get up and wash my hands, clean the keyboard and mouse, then wash my hands again. I spend approximately 2-3 hours daily washing my hands. 
• Mucous secretions such as spit or nasal secretions make me shudder in absolute revulsion and want to run from the room, generally I do so and... yup, you got it. I wash my hands. Over and over. I can be cleaning up something like that and have to wash my hands in the middle of it before I'm done.
•  Dermatillomania - also known as skin picking disorder - has plagued me my whole life. When I touch my skin, if I find a bump or a rough spot, the vast landscape of smoothness is interrupted with mountainous proportions and it HAS TO BE OFF MY BODY. I HAVE to get it off of my body. Now. If I try not to, I start to shake and panic, then my hands cramp. I can spend hours removing every foreign bump, especially scabs, from my body. The edges have to be perfectly smooth and I'll tug and pull with fingertips, needles or tweezers until I get the edges smooth, even if that means removing healthy skin at the edge of an open sore. When I get stressed, I feel as if there are things crawling on and under my skin, sometimes poking me, biting me, tingling... and I must scratch. When I pick and scratch, the result is euphoric, and an audible, "Thank you..." will often be heard falling from my lips as the relief washes over me. I don't wear shorts anywhere, I don't go swimming. I don't even sunbathe in my own backyard... the neighbors might see my scars and sores. A full acre away on every side and I worry about that. Ha! I am to the point that I pick even when at work. Where I used to smoke while driving, I pick instead. If I'm on a computer at home, chances are I'm scratching somewhere unless both hands are busy with keyboard and mouse. I wake up in the morning with bloody spots on my sheets. I find that I pick with no conscious thought sometimes and don't notice until the blood is already flowing. I spend approximately 5 hours a day picking my skin.
• Sir has pretty much stopped my NEED to weigh myself several times a day by having my son first hide the scale, then move the scale to my son's bathroom when I had better control. When that ruled my life, I was on it at least an hour a day.
• Lining things up at a store. My mother used to tease me mercilessly when I went through a department store and lined up the products and made sure hangers were all hanging the same way and evenly. I can't just leave them that way. It drives me batshit to walk away knowing ONE book was half an inch out of line with the others on the row, or a hanger end poked up slightly. This, of course, brings me to the insanity that is my house, as I no longer have the energy to pick up or clean up. The little things are perfect though... the canned good lined up on the shelves exactly. The boxed foods lined up evenly as are the books on the bookshelves.
• Impossibly high standards nearing perfectionism that I hold myself to, but no one else. Of course no one else can meet those standards. They are MY standards. I am responsible for them. I created them. I can and will live up to them. Right. Let's go through that again. Later. After Master tells me that it is impossible to do such a thing and my therapist tells me yet again that I must be gentle with myself. (How???!!) I often must remind myself that I am human, just like the other people that don't have to reach my impossible standards.
• Social anxiety which may or may not be related to previous molestation, but I rather doubt that the fear of going into a gym where other people might look at me was based on molestation. It was more based on, "OMG I can't go in there, people will see me and know I don't belong there!"
• Seeking constant reassurance. Master gives me that. The point is, I do just fine. I've been fine for my whole life. I've made good decisions. I'm making good decisions right now. At least this is what I'm told by my therapist. One can never be sure. I'd rather ask and be sure, even if it is every few minutes on my bad days. He's incredibly patient, my Master...
• You should see my going to bed ritual. Nevermind, only Master gets to see that. It is essential for my ability to fall asleep that I miss no part of this ritual else I lay there completely awake, fidgeting.
• My clothing in the closet is in a certain order and always will be. Tops, bottoms - each organized by type, color, length -- however it makes the best sense. Fortunately I buy several of the same pair of pants in the same color so I don't have to worry about pants organization much.
• I wonder just how much list making is considered to be "excessive." I have 4 at home, 3 in my purse, and 10 here at work. *face palm* Color coded... so that I know which one I should focus upon should my brain decide to go on vacation without me.
• Have you ever felt that you simply MUST count between passing milemarkers on a highway? I don't have as much trouble with that if I'm driving, but so help me, if I'm the passenger, there are only so many times one can get from 1 to 40 (depending on the speed of course)... or are there? I never tire of counting.  I figured everyone did it. When I found out they didn't? I started counting trees. Or houses. Or houses with trees. Or houses without trees. Pick one. Pick all of them. Sometimes I do as many different counts as I can just because...
• I'm currently experiencing a new thing. Recently I decided to go completely organic and non-GMO in everything. Food, shampoo, soap, toothpaste... these are just a start. As I progressed, thinking of new ways to improve my life with healthy behavior, this morning I felt the distinct urge to throw away my clothing, my towels, my furniture... all because it may be "contaminated" with some chemical that might cause physical harm or some health problem. This is just another symptom, according to my doctor. She says that a little non-organic food would be fine, which makes my system scream, "NO! I might get cancer!" and the idea of throwing away perfectly good clothing and going in a search for organic, non-GMO clothing is ludicrous. It sure would be expensive. And what about my car...

Today I can look at my behaviors and I feel relief in knowing what's up, but I also feel tremendous sadness that I've lived my life with some of these behaviors and they have affected me so much. I really don't know what "normal" is any more than any other person on the planet. We are all, to some extent, screwed up. It may be our past, genetic, chemically induced... who knows. I can tell you I've picked my own skin my whole life and even when I was skinny I felt I was the elephant in the room full of gazelles.

I have been diagnosed with depression and anxiety. The jury is still out on manic-depression and ADD. During my last visit with the physician, I told her about my skin picking, but she didn't know the extent until today when I showed her everything. I will be on an antibiotic for the lesions and abscesses. It is good to know that it could be much, much worse... but in the end it really doesn't help me stop, does it.

Apparently I'm a mess but I'm surviving. The doctor congratulated me on having done so well for so long and i agree that I've done well. I have to say there are some really excellent things I've managed to do through all of this: I've quit drinking alcohol completely, quit smoking, quit caffeine, quit driving like a speed demon and go the speed limit, shifted to organic and non-GMO foods, increased my water intake from practically nil to 60+ ounces daily, started daily vitamins and minerals, and the next thing I'm going to hit is daily exercise with meditation. Hopefully some yoga will help my flexibility remain intact - somehow I still have that. LOL!

Focusing on the positive. Not sure what to think of today's diagnosis... business as usual. What's the difference in a day-to-day living when only the words give it a meaning to the why of it all? Not a dang thing!

Work to do...