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He called it “OCD” but I prefer to think of it as “UGF”.
The doctor and I managed to get to the topic of children during one long and memorable appointment. He asked for my thoughts.
“Well, they aren’t my favorite…”
He could not understand how someone could dislike children. After all, children are cute and loveable. How could I say such a thing? My answer was simple and honest.
“Their hands are always sticky.”
He looked me straight in the eye.
“You have OCD.”
I was not concerned with the “diagnosis” of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I know I do not have it. I merely have “personality quirks.”
To me, the best part of living is observing how others react to various issues, occurrences, and challenges. I believe the best way to understand someone is to learn about a person’s quirks, the weird things that separate him or her from everyone else. In other words, to understand a person you must understand his or her Uniqueness, Geekness, and Freakness. My dislike of children is not OCD but part of my own UGF.
I have other personality quirks, too. For example, I cannot stand odd numbers. This may stem from my fear of being left out or rejected. Odd numbers mean there is always an odd one out. Though individualism is important to me, I also strongly believe in inclusion. No one wants to be rejected. It’s human nature after all.
When I told my doctor I disliked odd numbers, he told me I definitely have OCD. When I told him that I especially like the number twenty-eight because it is the perfectly even number, he shook his head and said, “You’re going to the funny farm.”
The conversation did not end there. The doctor also told me that I was his funniest patient and that my unique opinions were refreshing compared to those of the other teenagers with whom he has worked. He said that I looked perfectly normal on the outside, but that I was far different on the inside.
“Quirky,” he said. “You’re quirky.”
Before the end of my appointment, he told me that I ought to stretch more and try Tai Chi. He also threatened to send me to the “loony bin” if my “OCD” caused me to become “weirder.” But isn’t our weirdness what makes us who we are? What good are we if we are all the same? Everyone ought to be a little weird. Everyone ought to be quirky.
The doctor sent me off with a promise to call him if I had any trouble. Of course, he meant trouble with my new shoe inserts, not my head. After all, he was a podiatrist, not a shrink.
