I have obsessive-compulsive disorder. For years now, I’ve been preparing for a hypothetical germ outbreak; I wash my hands after touching anything; I have purchased bottles of hand sanitizer to stash in places where I frequent.
I’m used to being laughed at for my extreme, Monica Geller-like compulsions, but in this state of pandemic, no one is laughing anymore.
“I now have a small understanding of what it must be like to be you,” said one well-meaning friend.
She isn’t wrong; seeing millions of people take my standard level of precaution is somewhat jarring.
Here’s the thing: I’m not actually afraid of getting sick. I’m a young, able-bodied teenage boy. I’m worried about those who might not be so lucky. I worry about my grandparents. I worry about my friends who are chronically ill. I worry about the harmful rhetoric that they’re hearing.
“Don’t worry,” people say, “Coronavirus is only fatal for the elderly and the chronically ill.”
It’s said coldly and matter-of-factly, as if those people don’t matter.
Some people in my position might feel smug. I mean, haven’t I been right all along? Can’t I claim a moral high ground for having washed my hands before it was cool?
But believe it or not, I’m not too thrilled about a pandemic threatening the lives of those I care about.
I have obsessive-compulsive disorder, and I’m terrified. If you need me, I’ll be at home, in self-quarantine, with a huge bottle of Purell to keep me company.
Abram Berry, Sandy
