Hand Soap! I Summon Thee!

CW: Graphic depictions of obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), germaphobia, and physical anxiety.

Great. I’m in a public bathroom, even worse, it’s at a truck stop. Let’s take a road trip my friends said. It will be an adventure across the great Southwest desert, they said. They insisted I go so I did. One flat tire and three tourist traps later here I am, in the middle of nowhere, forced into using this abomination.

I survey the disgusting scene in front of me. A floor that looks like it hasn’t seen a mop in years, a toilet where flushing is optional and a sink where hand washing is an afterthought. The bathroom is probably a cesspool of anthrax, smallpox or leprosy but what else can I do? Nature calls. I enter the bathroom like a condemned man going to his execution and my OCD flairs up. Anxiety spiking through my mind in near paralyzing waves. I begin the ritual.

I approach the toilet with its streaks and stains. A porcelain mockery to all that is clean and sanitary. I take a deep breath and hold it so as not to inhale any germs. I step up and go to the bathroom. I look at the toilet and debate if I should even flush it but I must complete each step of the ritual for it to work. The safeguards my OCD has built in to maintain minimum exposure to germs since I was twelve years old. I lift my foot and kick the handle. It reluctantly flushes. I turn away in disgust and exhale. Step one is complete.

Now the next step of the ritual, born through years of tedious refinement. I approach the sink to wash my hands. I must get this right or Lord only knows what plague or disease may overtake my weak constitution. Who knows what horrible, sickly death may await me.

I look at the sink. Old, red stains streak the surface. Is that blood? Rust? I shudder to think what it could be. Using my elbow and shirt sleeve I push up on the faucet handle. Water trickles out but at least it works. I wet my hands, careful not to touch the side of the sink. Now for the real miracle.

Time to summon the hand soap. The sacred, life-giving liquid that everything hinges on. Still using my elbow, I hit the dispenser. An empty spurt. No! this can’t be! There must be some! There must be or the ritual will fail. Time slows, panic sets in as my mind races.

If there’s even a single drop, I must have it! I hit the disponer again. Harder than before. Still nothing. If there are OCD gods, they are a fickle, cruel lot who revel in my anxiety and distress. Still, I bow to their rituals daily and if they are real, I offer up a meager prayer to their ears. Please let there be soap.

In one last, desperate attempt I pound the dispenser. I hear a spurt coming from it. Hope swells within me. A drop falls onto my outstretched palm. One more hit and it begins to flow! Soap, the precious life-giving nectar of the gods pours into out into my loving embrace. A brief prayer of thanks as I receive its blessing. The ritual may continue in peace.

I quickly scrub my hands for exactly twenty seconds. Then rinse them off for twenty seconds more. Using my elbow, I shut off the faucet.

Now for the ceremonial drying of the hands. I check the paper towel dispenser. Of course it’s not an automatic motion censored one. Curse these old gas stations and their lack of automation. God forbid they modernize.

After the nearly disastrous soap experience, there better be some paper towels or I swear I will have a full-blown panic attack. I use my elbow and press on the lever. It cranks out a small towel. One puny towel won’t cut it. Four more pulls and I have something to work with.

I yank them off and dry my hands. The ritual is almost complete. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. Only one last hurdle. Getting out the door.

Using the paper towels I grab the door handle and pull it open. I hook the door open with my foot to finish opening it. I look for the trash can. It’s across the bathroom from me. One would think by now they’d figure out how to put the trash by the door.

I crumple up the paper towels in my now clean hands. I only have one shot at this, and my basketball skills are painfully lacking. I aim and shoot my best shot. The towels fly across the room and fall woefully short, landing on the ground. The polite thing to do would be to pick it up and throw it away but the polite thing to do would also be to keep this wretched place clean. I am not about to touch anything on the floor.

I step out of the bathroom and let the door slam behind me. The ritual completed I let out a sigh of relief and live to fight another day, I walk away as I put as much distance between myself and that torture chamber as I can.

I briefly debate buying a drink but don’t want to risk having another truck stop disaster. I walk out to my friends in the car, ready to continue this so-called adventure. They ask what took so long. I tell them to shut up.

The thing about OCD that people need to understand is that there are two parts. There is the first part, the obsession. In this case the fear of germs. Then there is the second part, the compulsion, or ritual. that protects you from the obsession. It’s the perfect storm for a mental hell in a truck stop bathroom but I must comply. In the end, I have no choice.

Do I expect people to understand it? No. Do I expect them to look the other way and pretend nothing weird is happening? Yes. To most people OCD is excessive and irrational. Many more see it as flat out bizarre. But hey, at least I don’t have leprosy.