“The game is Tapping, and if you play it perfectly, you get the prize. It's simple, but it takes a lot of skill.”
This piqued my interest, of course. I liked prizes. What nine-year-old doesn't?
“How do I play?”
“You tap your index finger precisely on the very same spot of the car hood with the same amount of pressure, over and over, exactly twenty-seven times with absolutely no error in your action.”
Hmm, I thought, I can do this. I'm certain of it. I knew the prize would be mighty. I just knew it. I believed that my reward would be feeling good inside, that I would feel calm and secure, and everything would be right again. That's what I wanted more than anything, especially after a long weekend at my dad's house. “Okay,” I said to the clever Stranger.
I felt so special. He'd designed this private game just for me and for no one else to see. So, as my parents continued to talk, I started my first Tapping game, the first instance of OCD behavior I remember.
I thought over the challenge one more time before I began. I would have to use the very tip of my right index finger and tap out to this certain designated number. Twenty-seven taps on the trunk of the car. My reward would come after I had done it perfectly, after I had dedicated myself to the game.
I found it exciting that the Tapping rules were so exacting, and I did not want to fail. I stared down at my index finger and started tapping. I got to nine perfectly, but on ten too much of the fatty tip of my index finger touched the car and with a bit too much pressure. Immediately the Stranger spoke. I would have to start over.
I looked over at my mom and dad to see if they were watching. They were not. I knew that if I really concentrated, without any distractions or interruptions, I could do it; I just had to apply myself better.
The Stranger watched over my shoulder to make sure I was doing it right. This game was harder than I thought. I had to start and stop at least a dozen times. I craved the moment when the Stranger would say, “At ease, soldier.”
Turns out my timing wasn't too bad. Just as I successfully finished the game, my parents were wrapping up their talk. I'd won. It felt so good. I felt some sort of rewarding self-satisfaction.
Of course, I didn't know I'd be playing the Tapping game with the Stranger again.
“Bye, Dad. Love you.” I grabbed my suitcase and ran to the front door of our house. Just like a normal nine-year-old. I held the screen door open for my mom.
Of course, this wasn't the only time I would hear from this Stranger. He magically seemed to know that I often felt uncomfortable and unsettled, and he knew just how to fix it: more games.
Longfellow Park 1974: Eight Years Old (Pre-OCD)
One summer day before I met OCD (which I would not know by name for another twenty years), I was at the playground by myself. I now think of that day as a kind of soul fossil. I can practically still smell and taste it. I remember how I smelled like a mixture of fresh green grass, dirt, and metal chain from the swings at the park, the top of my head baked by the sun and my hair hot and shiny. I remember the feeling of an untucked shirt, my belly round, and my knees dirty.
As a little girl I had a thirst for life you wouldn't believe. I loved how the bees would buzz around in their yellow-and-black-striped fuzzy outfits, as if they were enjoying a celebration together. I even found the flies magnificent. Their backs were colored with flowing metallic violets, blues, and greens. The colors would catch the sunlight, and I would stare at them and wonder how God made such color and put it onto their backs.
I remember hanging on to the jungle gym, which was in the shape of a submarine. I would hang and hang and hang, like a smiling monkey hanging from the limb of a tree. I hung until I felt my arms might stretch out of their sockets, but even this burning sensation felt good. My tennis shoes would create little dust clouds as my feet dangled and brushed across the gray rocks and tan pebbles.
I remember the swings. They were another land. I would sail through the air. The rushing breeze would cool my flushed face. My hands would sweat as I held on to the chains tighter and went higher. My heart would pump with excitement in my chest. I could hear it; I was alive. This was living. This was life, my life.
I could not have known that this was the best life would get. At least for a long, long time. I was calm, happy, filled with joy. I didn't need for anything.
Orange Tiger Lilies
My mom was incredibly vulnerable when she met my dad. Just before he came into the picture, she had lost a one-year-old daughter to spinal meningitis and a husband to suicide. She was raising two boys on her own and bringing in a small income, just barely making ends meet. Times were not easy. I think my dad brought in that fresh air she was looking for.
Things were not what they seemed, though. My dad cheated on her, was mentally abusive to her and my brothers, and had begun doing drugs like acid, mescaline, and pot. My mom and dad divorced when I was about two and a half.
After the divorce, my dad lived in a one-bedroom cottage near the Fox River in Illinois. It was not built for year-round living. It was a small summer house that was painted dirty white and had black-framed windows.
This was the 1970s, and my dad's horn-rimmed glasses and plaid shorts had given way to hippie beads and Nehru shirts. My mom has since said that she thought he looked a lot like Michael Douglas.
At the time of my parents' divorce, the court ordered that my dad could come for visits every Thursday. Usually, we would go to the park or a movie, or get something to eat. I also had to stay with my dad every other weekend and for three consecutive weeks during the dead August heat of a Chicago summer. This was my dad's time off from teaching sociology at the local community college.
Due to the constant moisture in the air because the house was near the river, the wooden doors were warped and never closed just right between rooms. The front porch always smelled like mildew and mold from the hundreds of stacked books that were trapped with moisture. Out front to the right and left of the steps, orange tiger lilies would bloom in late spring. They were wild looking and came up with the weeds. I have never grown an affinity for orange tiger lilies.
There was no air-conditioning in the house, just one large beige-and-white box fan that didn't do a good job of cooling the place. It just pushed the warm air around, and I spent a lot of my time sitting in front of it trying to cool myself off. This is when I happily discovered, like many kids do, that if I talked directly into the fan, my voice would sound really funny. Fortunately, this activity created some entertainment and helped me pass the time. I spent a lot of the mornings and early afternoons trying to entertain myself while waiting for my dad to get up after another late night of his doing drugs and more than likely visiting random friends.
For years I stayed hopeful that one of these mornings he would wake up and want to play a game with me. I remember whispering in my dad's ear, “Daddy, Daddy. When are you going to get up?” And he would say, in a quiet mumble with his face in the pillow, “Oh honey, just give me a little longer.” His little longer was always a big longer. It was clear that he just wasn't available. I could feel sadness filling me up like smoke fills a room.
Most people would say that my dad's bedroom was really in his living room, the main space in the center of his house. There were a couple of maroon-colored Chianti bottles on the floor that he used as candle-holders. A rainbow of colorful drips of melted wax stuck to the bottles. When I was bored, sometimes I would pick them off.
This was where my dad and his girlfriend, who was once one of his students, slept on the mattress in the middle of the floor. Her skin was clean and fresh looking, and I thought she was very natural looking and very pretty. Her wavy dark brown hair was long, more than halfway down her back and parted straight down