Practicing ‘Til it’s PPPerfect

By Joe Alterman

We took our seats just as the bell rang for class to begin. Mr. Harris began passing out the tests, and I immediately felt my heart start to race. That feeling of crippling anxiety took complete hold of me. Sure, high school history wasn’t my favorite subject, but I was prepared for this test, and I knew it.

My heart sank as I saw it wasn’t multiple choice this time. I wouldn’t simply be able to fill in the circles and move on to the next question. Knowing each one would have to be answered in multiple sentences, I began to panic, as I realized how many shapes I would have to perfect as I crafted each letter to complete each answer.

I made it through the first couple of words before I had to write the letter P. I started from the bottom up, first drawing the line and then circling around to form the oval. As I finished drawing, I realized the end of the oval extended past the straight line. Knowing the letter wasn’t perfect, I needed to fix it and began to erase and rewrite. I rewrote that letter and had a perfect second P. However, at that time, three was my “lucky” number, so I erased and rewrote it. But the third P wasn’t perfect. So, logically to me, I now had to successfully erase and rewrite the letter P nine times (that would be three P’s, three times). There was a lot of pressure to get that final ninth P perfect, or else I would have to multiply those nine P’s times three and do it again.

I messed up the ninth P. Finally, after erasing and rewriting it 27 times, I was able to move on to the next letter, an A. Twenty-seven more times. The letter after the A was a T, and once again, I had to erase and rewrite that letter 27 times — to complete the cycle of writing three consecutive letters 27 times. As I got to the fourth letter, I knew if I messed it up, I’d have to begin erasing that one, too (thus messing up my pattern of three). I began to really panic, knowing if that should happen, I would have to erase and rewrite the next five letters 27 times each (which would equal erasing and rewriting nine consecutive letters 27 times). Twenty-five minutes had already passed, and I had only written a couple of words in this very long test. I began to shake. As I felt the tears begin to well up, I decided to step outside for a minute.

Two girls stood in front of me at the water fountain. One had a sip of water and began walking away before quickly turning back.

“Let me fill up my water bottle real quick,” she said. “I’m so OCD.”

As I walked back to the classroom, I knew I couldn’t let myself begin to write. I decided I would sit through the test and talk to my teacher afterward. He’d understand.

So I sat there for the rest of the class with pencil in hand pretending to be engaged in the test. As I sat there, I could feel my mind was about to punish me for not being strong enough to continue with the erasing and rewriting. It told me to count. I counted to 80. “Again,” it said. I counted to 80 again. “Again.” “Again.” “Again.” “Again.” By the time the bell rang, I was noticeably in tears and had counted to 80 — 55 times.

***

One of the most difficult things for me back then was realizing I no longer was "normal." And while I cherished my friends and their advice, I couldn't yet bring myself to tell them the truth. While I'm sure they would have comforted me and made me feel better about my situation, I felt being around them was the only place I could still feel normal. I wanted to hold on to that for as long as possible.

So each day I'd go to school, plaster a big fake smile on my face and joke around with my friends. That fake smile often would become a real smile, simply because I was smiling. But the feeling that resulted from both the OCD and my inability to talk to those I would most like to confide in left me feeling a nearly unbearable amount of frustration, angst and anxiety each day after school.

It was during this time when I fell completely in love with music and the piano. Almost every day, as soon as I'd come home, I'd run to the piano and just play for the next three, four, five, six, seven hours. That's where it would all pour out.

While I had to fake normalcy at school, the piano became — and remains to this day — a safe space where I can be myself.

***

Recently, I was reminded of the ironic scene at my high school’s water fountain while lounging in New York’s Washington Square Park.

“Hold on one sec. I need to tie my shoes,” I heard a guy yell to his friends, before adding, “I’m so OCD.” He tied them in less than five seconds and ran off.

I smiled to myself.
I went home inspired to revisit the journal I kept during high school.

April 2004

It now takes me more than four hours to get in bed. Four hours of fixing, touching, balancing, rearranging, hoarding things next to my bed, hiding all the scissors, perfectly placing my cell phone into the charger many times, turning the lights on and off many times, looking over and over at one picture of my grandparents, looking at the same picture many more times (while blinking), touching every corner in every room, combing my hair excessive times, washing my hands, looking behind every piece of furniture, behind every corner in every room many times, smiling into the mirror many times, opening and closing doors, fixing “wrong” steps, and entering and exiting rooms a certain number of times. Sometimes I get in bed after the four hours of compulsions, and my dog comes into the room adjacent to mine. My mind tells me I have to get up to pet her, or else I don’t love her. Of course, I get up and pet her, and then it takes me four more hours to get back in bed.

***

I used to get angry when I’d hear someone — after what usually was nothing more than a minor delay — toss it off as having obsessive compulsive disorder.

I didn’t realize back then the word OCD most likely became part of these people’s vocabularies because of the frequent, casual use of the term in TV and movies. They almost certainly did not pick up the word from those actually suffering.

Back when I was struggling with a severe form of the disorder, hearing these references made me feel, in a way, possessive of the term, which only made me feel angry.

I sure do wish TV, books and movies wouldn’t throw around OCD so casually. But in the meantime, I’m not bothered by people using the term in the wrong way. Here’s why: On nearly every second or third date, there comes a point when the lady I’m out with opens up and tells me her “stuff.” Back in high school, when the pretty girls were running around, smiling and casually saying they had OCD, it seemed impossible to me that maybe they were suffering from something, too. How wrong I was. Everyone has his or her stuff.

***

Toward the end of those dark days in high school, I reached out to legendary jazz saxophonist Sonny Rollings via his website to tell him how much his music helped me deal with OCD. I was shocked when he responded. “Dear Joe. Your comments were appreciated. We all have to use adversity as an opportunity to find a way. So keep a strong mind throughout this short existence. Your examples give us all hope, as all of us here in this life have to struggle.”

Now, quite a few years after cognitive behavior therapy helped put those rough days behind me, I see how right Mr. Rollins was: OCD was nothing more than the greatest opportunity in the world to strengthen my mind and myself.

I know it was hard to see during the darkest of days, but I am truly thankful for that experience and know I would be nowhere near as successful and happy as I am today had it not been for my OCD. People often approach me at my performances and say things like, "You sound like an old man who has been around a while.” I’m always incredibly touched by that and totally credit any “feeling” people associate with my music to my experience with OCD.