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Insanity lite >> The humour and the horror of obsessive-compulsive disorder by JULIET WATERS
Part of the problem may be that Colas gives so little information about her disease that she could easily be mistaken for a garden variety neurotic. The current theory about OCD is that it's an information-processing problem that's possibly genetic. Sufferers tend to have obsessions about germs and dirt, or imagine that they've done or said something that will harm themselves or others and usually have a need to have everything "just so." Obsessions are usually accompanied by compulsive rituals like washing, counting, repeating, or hair cutting. The most notorious case of obsessive-compulsion is Howard Hughes, and this year Jack Nicholson won an Academy Award for his portrayal of a man with the disorder. Compared to extremely self-destructive mental illnesses like schizophrenia or manic depression, OCD can seem relatively superficial; Colas calls it "insanity lite." In the framework of a two-hour movie or a 200-page book, it can be easily made to seem funny and idiosyncratic because sufferers appear to live in a state of absurd suspended adolescence that gives them a certain endearing charm. But in real life it's an extremely debilitating psychological problem that, left untreated, saps almost all the energy an average adult needs just to deal with realistic day-to-day problems. It's also a somewhat nightmarish experience for the partners, families and friends of people with OCD, who must helplessly watch a normally intelligent person behave as though they were on some mild but neverending bad acid trip. Amidst the endless comic potential of a life filled with ridiculous fears is the tragic reality that the average obsessive-compulsive will attempt to keep their problem a secret for at least a decade of their life and usually closer to two. And if they've successfully surrounded themselves with a smoke screen of neurotic humour, they may never admit to the pain and terror that keeps them from seeking treatment. This seems to be Colas's tragic character flaw. She can go into fascinating and funny detail about her obsessions with blood, her hobby of vacuuming ants and her mission to clean the world. But she never seems to really hit the core of her fear. The closest she gets is admitting to the feeling of emptiness she feels after she has started taking the medication that makes her symptoms disappear. "When you're on the pill, you get better and there's not a whole lot you can do about it... [recovery] comes on slowly but you can tell. The thoughts and worries become less gripping. I guess I figured that once that began to happen I'd instantly become happy. But the startling realization I made as I was coming to my senses was that life's kind of a drag. There didn't seem to be much to it. And my rituals had been a nice diversion. Without them, I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself and this thought made my head ache. I got anxious, nervous, wondering if I was destined to live this dull and uninteresting life. But because of those damn pills. I wasn't even able to obsess about that." So, to make life interesting again Colas proceeds to sabotage a marriage with a seemingly close-to-perfect guy (early in the book her husband becomes one of the five finalists on a Donahue "Best Husband Video Contests"). Like the lightswitch on the cover of her book, Colas flicks back and forth between being the kind of person you want to admire for her lack of self-pity, and the kind of person you want to strangle for her compulsion towards a Seinfeldian (no learning, no hugging) existentialism. But in her weird way she manages to emerge in the end as a likeable and interesting heroine. Just Checking: Scenes From the Life of an Obsessive-Compulsive by Emily Colas, Pocket Books, hc, 165 pp. $31
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While reading Emily Colas's Just Checking: Scenes From the Life of an Obsessive-Compulsive, one might be plagued with a nagging question. How could this 30-year-old woman--who is bright, educated, attractive, witty and talented--live such an empty, passive life so filled with superficial obsessions and void of introspection? It's almost like Sylvia Plath had been reincarnated as a character on Seinfeld.