Lucky Number Seven

I stretch, slowly making my way out of bed. A buttery-yellow ray of sunlight finds its way into my bedroom through a gap in my thick, plum colored curtains. I can see dust floating in the air and I impulsively scratch my arm, immediately heading to the bathroom. I proceed to take a scalding hot shower, scrubbing my skin fervently with a fresh washcloth.

One.

After a few minutes of washing, I hop out of the shower and change into some comfy clothes. I go to the kitchen, turning on the stove and cracking an egg into a frying pan before placing it unto said stove. I wash my hands, scrubbing them with lots of anti-bacterial soap.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

I finish washing my hands for the seventh time, drying them off on a clean towel. Popping some bread into the toaster, I grab the bottle of 409 and a washcloth out of a drawer. I spray the liquid cleaner on the marble counter and start wiping down the already clean countertop. I spray again, wiping the counter down yet again.

Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

Smiling at my reflection, I turn back to the stove, quickly taking the pan off the stove and clicking the switch to off. I balance on my tiptoes, attempting to grab a plate out of the cabinet without getting a chair to stand on. After a couple tries, I finally get one down. Picking up a spatula, I flip the egg out of the frying pan and unto the lavender colored plate. I walk over to the sink and quickly wash my hands seven times, drying them off on a new clean towel.

I pull a fork out of the silverware drawer along with a purple, cloth napkin. Plucking the toast out of the toaster, I plop down in the stool in front of the severely clean counter top, flipping the T.V. on. While I slowly chew my breakfast, I sit slumped next to the counter, staring blankly at the screen, not really paying attention to the news.

Instead, I’m mentally forming lists. Lists of things to do, things to clean, things to shop for. I take another bite of egg and toast, still chewing slowly. The anchorwoman is talking about the economy and how our new president plans on fixing the mess the U.S.’s last president got us into. I sigh, shaking my head as a few “Bushisms” pop into my mind, distracting me from my list making.

I scrape the rest of my meal into a pile on the edge of the plate, shoveling it into my mouth and switching the television off, all while walking back into the kitchen. I put my dirty dish and fork into the sink, soaking it in hot water. I grab a glass from the cups cabinet, filling it with water and taking a long sip of it. The cool water washes down my warm throat, giving me goose-bumps on my sun-kissed skin.

Placing the glass in the sink, I fill it too with hot water, letting it sit. I head to the bathroom, sliding my shirt off on the way. I close the door behind me, sliding the rest of my clothes off. I brush my teeth, seven times, letting the water in the shower run and warm up as I do so. I quickly finish brushing and jump into the shower, redoing the ritual I had done not even twenty minutes before.

My name’s Mishka Gorsky. I suffer from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder; commonly known as OCD. Specifically, I have Mysophobia; an abnormal fear of dirt or contamination. I’m also known as a germophobe. My mother moved to the U.S. from Russia ten years before I was born. The usually girl meets boy, girl and boy fall in love, girl and boy have a baby story applies to my mother and father. They are currently living in Houston, Texas. As for me, I’m going to college at UCLA.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a germophobe. It’s worse now compared to when I was little. I used to only have to wash things twice, sometimes thrice, compared to seven. Lucky number seven.

I get out of the scalding shower, skin red from not only the heat, but from the constant rubbing as well.

Two.

I grab my hair brush, no hair visible in the fine bristles, and begin brushing. I walk into my bedroom across the hall, still brushing my hair, and look around. Everything is immaculately clean. All surfaces clutter free and wiped down. No clothes on the floor and said floor vacuumed. I get some clothes out of my closet and put them on; already planning the next outfit I’m bound to change into in about thirty minutes or so.

I go back to the kitchen and riffle through the cupboard below the sink. I pull a pair of heavy-duty yellow gloves out and some bleach. After sliding the gloves on, I fill the sink with more scalding water, adding some bleach as well. I don’t trust dishwashers. I mean, yeah they can save me some time, but I’d rather make sure that the utensils I eat off of are clean. I begin the ritual of washing my plate, glass, and fork. Seven times, of course.

Once I finish the compulsive need to clean my dishes, I take the gloves off, folding the inside out and letting them air-dry. I then move on to wiping down the counter, with bleach, and the floor.

I stand in the doorway to the kitchen; raisin-ed hands on my hips, letting the fresh scent of bleach fill my nostrils. I smile, the OCD calmed, for a few minutes at least. Since I currently don’t have an overwhelming need to cleanse, I stride into the small living room of the single apartment I own, plopping onto the couch and turning the T.V. on. I bring my knees up to my chest and flip through channels, hoping to find something good. I settle on watching HGTV and attempt to relax before the mysophobia kicks in again. Slowly but surely, I start to rub at my skin, feeling dirty and contaminated.

Five minutes later I can’t stand the nagging thoughts plaguing me, causing me to jump off the couch and hurry to the restroom.

Three.

After washing for the third time, it’s about one o’clock in the afternoon. I sigh, knowing what’s coming next. Craving it, yet shunning it at the same time. I put a pair of high-heels on, grab my purse, wash my hands and head out the door. The sun is shinning, warm summer smells in the air, and people are walking down the side walk. I put my favorite pair of sunglasses on, wiping them down with disinfecting wipes from my purse first, and head down the block. I walk at a brisk pace for fifteen minutes before I’m facing the building; my destination.

Bracing myself, I stare at the silver, fingerprint covered handle of the glass door leading into said building. I quickly retrieve a wash-wipe from my purse, tearing open the little packet fiercely. I use the wipe to cover the handle, pushing the door open. Once I finally get into the air conditioned structure, I walk off in the direction of the bathroom. I worked up quite a sweat walking in the hot weather of California. I take multiple packets of wet wipes from my bag and ripe them all open. Retreating into the closest stall, I take my shirt off and wipe down all the sweaty places on my torso.

“Hello Miss Grosky. It’s nice to see that you made it today.” Mrs. Rosa, my therapist, greets, a smile on her face. I missed our last appointment. I was cleaning the bathroom for the umpteenth time that day and couldn’t pull myself away from the obsession.

“Sorry.” I murmur, setting myself down in my chair. I fold my hands in my lap, looking at her through pained eyes. I can see dust in the air and on some surfaces throughout the office.

Mrs. Rosa leans forward, elbows on the dusty desk, and looks at me over her pointed nose. “Tell me, how have these last few weeks been?”

I sigh and delving into the many trials and tribulations of my last few weeks, taking a wet wipe out of my purse and wiping off my hands. Lucky number seven