My OCD: A Personal Log

Dear Readers:

I am writing this blog in the belief that it will not be read, hence can write freely:

In my life (also title to my favorite Beatles song) I have been healthy, if not wealthy, and smart, going- on-wise. But a combined series of events has changed my life in numerous ways. Yes, there is Covid19, alive and well, unlike its now millions of victims. Thus far, I have evaded assault, perhaps assisted by round one of the Moderna vaccine. But mental and emotional assault are another matter entirely. Four years of Trump has taken an enormous toll on all of us, having looted our nation's capital, and then led a violent assault on our nation's Capitol (for which crime he will most certainly be exonerated, like all his previous crimes). 

My case, the one I wish to share here, is a combined consequence of the above multi-layered assaults, failing at marriage, growing old(er), and living alone in a studio apartment, when before it was sharing a 2000-sf house with my wife and step-daughter. I have not lived alone, in a relatively small space, since my twenties, in New York. And even there, it was only briefly, until I moved in with a group of fellow filmmakers (as I was, at the time) in a large loft in New York's then-emerging artist's district of SOHO (which stands for 'South of Houston Street' in lower Manhattan). Now of course, it is the trendiest part of town, but back then artists moved there because the rent was cheap. We paid a combined total of $200 a month--$50 apiece for the four of us--for the top two entire floors of a four-story flatiron building (a former 19th Century warehouse or light industry building) with a large service elevator. We lived in the top floor, the three men already there had built a bunk room and a kitchenette, with a bathroom all in the back, and the rest of the space was a sound studio. The floor below was entirely a film studio, both of which we rented out.

Recently, similar lofts in SOHO have sold for upwards of ten million dollars. And the artists, of course, are long gone, including yours truly. This cycle has occurred, historically, throughout the world. Artists gather at an often beautiful location because of such beauty, where costs are low because tourism and Yuppification have yet to arrive. And then, of course, they arrive.

Some artists have managed to remain in such locations, of course, if they are successful. I have friends in this group, but alas, am no longer one of them.

My state of divorce (2018) was a sad affair, no pun intended. It seems that I was a failure as a husband (and step-parent). No physical abuse, mind you, or violence. Well, of mental and emotional abuse, possibly guilty as charged. My only excuse was that I am within the threshold of autism, as well as bi-polar. But I finally found a medication that worked (Seraquel) and, while it was too late to save the marriage, we parted as friends, and friends we remain. It seems I've learned to be a much better friend than I was a husband, but what is life, if not to live and learn? (And find the right meds).

All that said, my new solo lifestyle in the midst of a global lockdown has developed into a tight routine, in order to maintain my sanity. I awaken at seven (internal alarm is all I need), and turn on our local (Seattle) NPR station, KNKX, the listener-supported station for jazz, blues, and NPR news, then carefully make my bed even though no one will see it but me. I listen to much-improved news of late on the political front, if not Covid front, while I prepare a mostly-healthy breakfast of coffee, with honey, cinnamon, and coconut milk (try it!). I may now be a mystery author, but none of that cliched black coffee for me, thank you very much! Then onwards to a bowl of granola topped with fresh fruit and yogurt. Breakfast is served. After which I brush my teeth. Always (see below)

Then it's 9:00 a.m. and mid-day jazz begins. To to the wailings of Coltrane (or whomever), I go to my desk to check email, read the New York Times and Seattle Times online, check I few websites such as The Hive, and Atlas Obscura (I've all but abandoned Facebook). Then I read for an hour on my Kindle. Then an hour of exercise, including with 5 lb. dumbbells. This exercise serves three purposes: first, for personal fitness, of course; second to constructively utilize another hour, and thirdly, it gives me ample opportunity to practice another recent symptom: I've become, to coin a term, a countaholic. I've found myself, during this lockdown, automatically counting everything I do. I have to stop myself from counting footsteps like Monk, or bites, or sips, or toothbrush strokes, or stirrings in a pot. It's maddening, to be sure, except when I'm exercising.

Precisely at noon, to the accompaniment of Miles Davis, perhaps, I prepare lunch: a bowl of ramen, alternating between shrimp, beef, chicken, and pork, together with a small plate consisting of two Triscuits--each with a slice of extra sharp cheddar--and a 4" piece of celery with peanut butter. All organic, of course. Well, mostly. Then half a snack bar (I have a wide selection) for dessert. Then brush my teeth. Then a prescribed dental rinse (horrible).

After that daily ordeal of oral torment, I apease myself with a pot of either Red Zinger or peach herbal iced tea, to which I'll add ten droplets exactly of a B-12 energy drink from one of those ubiquitous small bottles. I can't imagine drinking an entire bottle, as they are marketed to do. I'd probably develop hives or go nuts and run around in circles yelling curses in Greek or something. And I don't even speak Greek! 

Does a picture begin to take shape? A picture of MONKism? Adrian Monk, as many of you might know, was a television P.I. and former cop on the TV series MONK, who developed OCD: Obsessive, Compulsive Disorder, and so, apparently, have I. A symptom, I suppose, of all of the above.

But it's not at all bad, IMHO. It keeps me going each and every day, seven days a week. So there's more, of course: an afternoon and evening:

To the melodic alto saxaphone tones of David (Fathead) Newman's Cristo Redentor, perhaps, or something on keyboards from the late great Chick Corea, I read until 3:00 (currently China Mieville's Iron Council), then, while forcing myself to listen to NPR's All Things Considered,  while I take a medication for my neuropathy. Then, after the usually horrific headlines for an energizer, I change stations to my listener-supported classical station KING FM, read until 4:00, to the tones of Mozart, and Hayden, or some Chopin etudes, perhaps, with a snack break at 3:30, of either two dates with peanut butter or a small fistful of either banana chips, or Keto Coconut Clusters (totally organic). Then brush my teeth.

At 4:00 I take about ten supplements (I won't bore you with the list), Gabapentin for neuropathy, then reward myself with one pipeful of a selection of marijuana strains and products (legal in Washington State, not that it matters) then begin to write. Sativa is best for writing, for me. Writing is my field now and has been for the past forty years: first in Hollywood as a screenwriter, then moving to Florida as a single parent to write mystery novels, which led to a modicum of success, since the '90s. Setting my Tony Lowell Mysteries there, then after moving back to the West Coast--this time Seattle--developing a new series the first of which is about to be released, A Tiger's Heart, a Jake Fleming Investigation. TL was a P.I. Jake Fleming is an endangered species: an investigative journalist for a newspaper, in his case the fictiona San Francisco Tribune. 

Sorry, that was a commercial break. But doing creative work, together with my new OCD, is keeping me busy, and sane. Plus, well, it's my job.

Oh, I should mention the ice packs. A variety of injuries over the years, most recently a broken ankle, has led me to another addiction of sorts: to applying three ice packs several times a day, while I'm seated: one on my ankle, one behind my lower spine (where I had surgery that created my neuropathy) propped up by a throw pillow, and one behind my right shoulder, which aches from an old injury while running. Excuse me, it's time to get them, in fact (I'm writing this during my write time because, hey, I can, and besides, I've already written 2 and 1/2 new novels since the Pandemic began: a Florida eco-disaster that brings my two protagonists together; then a fourth Jake Fleming Investigation and half a fifth--no, not that kind of fifth, thank you very much, I'm strictly a wine and weedo).

Then there's the eye drops: a medical necessity that requires very expensive preservative-free eye drops every ten minutes. A small bottle of one fluid once costs about $20, and it lasts a few days. I keep time. Do I absolutely need to use them that frequently? Probably not. I can't when I'm driving somewhere unless I stop. And often I'm busy with something or someone and miss a drop time. While writing, for example. But then, my OCD requires punishment: if I miss a ten-minute mark, I must wait until the next even ten-minute number is reached on the clock: I have five timepieces at the ready as needed, depending on where I'm sitting, standing, or exercising: my alarm clock; a large clock mounted above my stove; my smartphone (the worst invention ever culturally and socially, but otherwise very useful); my Kindle; and my watch, for keeping watch, so to speak. My eyes mist with sad irregularity, thus it is, for the most part, a medically induced misting (which means certain movies can be problematic). Thus, it has become a costly addiction indeed (but necessary, unlike other costly addictions).

I write (and occasionally weep) for two hours. Then it's six o'clock and time for dinner. 

I switch radio stations to KEXP, our commercial-free alternative station affiliated with the University of Washington, and to the heavy beat of Air Supply, say, or perhaps some melancholy Verve. depending on my mood,  I set out all the tools and implements to prepare dinner: a large metal bowl, a large strainer--one in each side of my double sink--a salad bowl, a saucepan for steaming 1/2 an ear of corn, a cutting board, and two sharp knives, a fork, and an oval spoon. I then prepare dinner beginning with salad.

For an entrée, I alternate between red and white wines, and appropriate foods for each: meat dishes for the red (Cabernet, Merlot, or Pinot Noir), and chicken or seafood dishes with Chardonnay, my preferred white, (although an occasional Pinot Black or Sauvignon Blanc will do in a pinch). The entrée selections are varied considerably. That, and dessert variety along with reading and writing selections, remain my primary sources of variety in my life. (Oh, and the weed selection, lol).

Desserts are varied as well. That is, varied flavors of pies or muffins. 

Then it's time to wash up, put everything into the drying rack, brush my teeth yet again, after which I reward myself with another pipe of another variety of pot, probably a more relaxing Indica, and sit back to watch Netflix. I've abandoned TV, I can't stand the commercials, the Super Bowl being the exception to both.

Oh, I should mention, I have a room-mate. A pet, actually, of sorts. He resides on top of my refrigerator, from which viewpoint he can monitor my daily activities. I give him a gentle pat now and then; he deserves it. His name is Dolphy, and he's a blue and white dolphin. Stuffed. Fine, he's a toy, but he's become real to me. And why not, he hardly eats anything and takes up no space at all. So we chat when I'm fixing meals. At least I do.

I also have taken up with having conversations with myself. Conversations never worked on Facebook, alas; and emails are infrequent and inadequate, at best. So I'm stuck with talking to myself. I try to balance scolding with praise, however, like any good parent.

I am very lonesome. Most of my friends are far away. I do have one friend who comes over each Friday evening when we kick back, smoke weed, and watch Netflix. That, now, is the life that I live.

E.C. Ayres