My number is four; the left shoe goes on first; toothpaste goes next to the floss on the right side of the mirror; I tap my fingers together four times for each person who touches me; I wash my hands fifty times a day. I practice a self-loathing cycle of upbeat hedonism; nevertheless, I remain optimistic. I’ve been called many things, but rarely deranged. Instead, three words seem to stick, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

Now two of those words, I admit, may be suitable adjectives to describe my less than collected psyche. However, the misconstruing detail of that loaded designation lies in the unfair use of an overly stigmatized word: disorder. If you know me, you know the last thing I am is “disordered”. Outlandishly goofy, maybe. Even lanky to the point in which I, all too closely, resemble one of those “car dealership floppy men;” but not disordered.

Medically we define disorder as, “a physical or mental condition that is not normal or healthy.” Hence my bizarre imagination renders me ill. Ever caught a cold from someone with OCD? I’ll tell you right now; you haven’t. Historically, people like me, who wash their hands fifty times a day, tend to stay relatively clean. Who decided that anything out of the ordinary is “unhealthy?” By that logic, so is winning the lottery and living to 103.

I’m a very long person, with very large feet, and an unfortunate compulsion that requires me to tap my feet, four times each, at every grazing toe. I get in more “steps” on a crowded New York City subway than most people get in a week. If anything, it’s an unusually healthy habit; my calves would thank me, I’m sure. “Obsessive tooth-brushing” won’t show up on my list of ailments; my dentist reaches an academic orgasm on my bi-annual visits. Of course, as I’m writing this I’m obsessively eating chocolate; the brutal cycle of self-loathing hedonism will always prevail.

But yes, some days I’m sad, and often it's hard to find a reason to get out of bed. And those days are hard, but I get up anyway, and I find a reason to get through the day. I funnel what I feel into my odd exploration of creative writing styles. When I started writing this article I wasn’t sure how to title this piece, because so what? Who cares if I don’t like the word disorder; who cares if I feel sad sometimes; who cares if I have OCD? But that’s not why I write; I don’t care who cares, I don’t care if people like it, or if they laugh at my self-pleasuring humor. I don’t write for other people, I write for myself. I write to release the tormenting feeling of dread; the uncontrollable thoughts that swarm through my head. I write to make myself laugh when I can’t remember what it feels like to be happy. And at the end of the day maybe that’s the best we can do, just make ourselves laugh.