"Breakdowns come and breakdowns go."

It's been a while since I've cried.  I'm not talking about tearing up during Forrest Gump or Piano Man.  I mean sobbed.   I don't cry often and the few times I do it generally gets reported back here.  I was feeling a little under the weather.  I had really bad poison ivy.  My arms, legs, chest and stomach itched.  Itched and itched.  And I was done with the scratching.  I was really trying to refrain from scratching.  My baby was crying.  And there was so much clutter!  Papers piled up.  Pens scattered about.  The whole world started closing in on me all at once.  When I am sick, OCD gets nasty.  It plays dirty.  I felt like I was in the fetal position, getting the living shit beaten out of me by 5 men in combat boots.  I couldn't handle it.  I toyed with the idea of storming out of the house, leaving my wife to deal with our crying baby.  But I didn't move.  I sat in an armchair, head in hands, itching.  I couldn't move.  I was stuck.  Reason kept me there.  Responsibility and love for my family grounded me.  I had visions of grabbing something like a chair or computer and tossing it against a wall.  I felt dirty.  Sweaty! I couldn't stand the clutter around me.  It all had to be cleaned up and organized right then!  I wanted to wash my hands and my face. I wanted to run scalding, hot water over the poison ivy.  I wanted to scream!  When I finally did get up, I ran upstairs and sat on the bed.  My wife and child remained downstairs.  I started to cry.  And then it was a sob.  Through this sob I repeated, "I don't want it.  I don't want it anymore.  Take it.  Take it away."  I don't know who I was talking to or why it even came out aloud but I needed to hear the words.  The tears just erupted.  I couldn't control them nor did I try. And then just as suddenly as the tears had started, they stopped.  So, I sat there, quietly.  It's not as if the ordeal was over.  I didn't feel better.  I just felt nothing.  The world still wanted to crush me.  But I am a grown man.  I am bigger than this.  So, I let it go.  And there it went.  I stood up, went downstairs and the family got dressed to leave the house together.  We went to the park.  We let the dogs chase squirrels and laughed at our baby's 9 month old smile, giggles and babble.  I let it go.  I let it go somewhere deeper inside my head.  Deeper but not gone.
I remember a day when I would actually press a random payphone receiver up against my ear.  I remember when I would hold onto poles in the subway for balance without giving it a second thought. I remember reaching for the door knob in a public bathroom without a care.  Is it age that has progressed my OCD?  Is it just time collecting my experiences, presenting them to me in a big, pile of germ infested clutter for me to sort through with gloves on and hand sanitizer in my pocket?  "Take all of this bullshit that drives you insane and slowly lose your mind."  What happened to the little child who would absentmindedly put money in his mouth?  I remember slapping hundreds of hands a day in high school.  Now, I'm hand sanitizing my knuckles after an awkward fist bump.  I can't even open the bathroom door in my own damn bathroom in my own damn house without a tissue.  What is this torture to be when I'm 60?  Worse?  Will I live in a bubble?  Will I wear gloves all the time?
I must resolve not to let that happen.  Every once in a while I need to sob.  I need the OCD and the TS to crush me a little bit.  I need to take a beating.  This, too is experience.  Experience is all we've got.  I am bigger than this.  I will take my beatings and I will survive.