Despite my last post, in which I made the case that the increasing number of panic attacks I’ve been having don’t really have anything to do with TS or OCD, the reverse isn’t necessarily true. The increase in panic attacks has resulted in an increase in tics, and my intrusive thoughts have been off the rails. I even added a new one.
Several years ago, my wife and I watched a movie in which a medical examiner pinpointed the time of death of a body by measuring the liver temperature using a meat thermometer. I remember thinking at that time, “Huh! That’s the same kind of thermometer I use to measure the temperature of the milk when I’m making coffee.” So weird! Ah well. Whatever…
A couple of weeks ago as I was making my second cup, I was struck by the sudden urge to measure my own liver temperature. The thermometer was right there. It’s sharp. It’s designed for this. The need to stab it into my liver was so strong, I had to force myself to drop it for fear I’d actually do it.
I wound up doubled over the sink, trying not to vomit.
Every time I looked up at the pitcher of milk, ready to steam, I’d see that thermometer clipped to the side just waiting for me. Back in the sink I’d go. I did eventually make that second cup of coffee, but it was an ordeal.
It’s never easy to talk about this stuff. Even when talking to people who know about OCD, it’s hard not to worry that they’ll judge you, think you’re bonkers, or worse, think you’re dangerous. I hemmed and hawed about telling anyone, but finally opened up to my wife.
She didn’t know what to make of it at first, but she listened as I described the urgent need to impale myself on a thermometer that, up until that point, had only ever been used to make sure I didn’t scald the milk while making coffee. In the end she promised to steam the milk for me, and I promised to get help.
We both kept our promises. I’m getting help, I haven’t stabbed myself, and she’s been helping with the coffee. More than that, though, she’s been finding ways to laugh even when it feels like there’s no laughter left.
A while back my wife took up knitting. As with most things she sets her mind to, she transitioned quickly from beginner to advanced projects. Right around the time the thermometer began begging to be used, she started making me an intricately cabled alpaca wool hat.
Right after she transitioned to making the crown, I came home from work to find her holding up a knitted tube with an ungodly number of double-pointed needles poking out of it. She pointed to them and said, “As long as you don’t think of these as meat thermometers, you can try it on.”
I had to laugh.
I let her lower the thing onto my head, knowing all those pointy things were practically touching my scalp, just begging to be rammed in. It was an absolute skin-crawling nightmare.
But the hat fit great! It’ll even keep my ears warm.
Once the meat therm… needles are gone.