OCD

I cannot remember how often we had to go to the shelter last night, actually yesterday we had to go in at 8.30 a.m. The next round was, I think 5.00 p..m. At 9.30 I texted my sister to ask (not for her permission, just to check in) whether 9.30 is way too early to go to sleep.  When life is 'normal', I go to sleep about 12.00 p.m.  But life is no longer even approaching the what wasn't normal anyway, existence of our previous life.  I did not wait for her reply,, but simply fell, exhausted onto my bed, only to be jarred into a state of adrenaline filled alertness by the 'warning' siren about half an hour later.  

We constantly receive updated alert systems from the Home Front Command app.  5 days ago we would receive a rattlesnake-like sound which meant that missiles have been triggered and we should get ready to go to a shelter. It may take 30 minutes until we get the next siren which means we have 90 seconds to get to the shelter.  Now we have 10 minutes instead of 30. And we are told that lives are saved by going to a shelter. We see pictures of destroyed buildings in which families have survived because they were in the shelter.  Of course even the best shelter cannot survive a direct hit.  We are shown pictures of those too, along with the names of the dead. 

What do we do in the shelter? We sit in a sort of a circle on not very comfortable chairs. One or two people are wheeled in by their caregivers. We all look at each other sleepily and mumble something like "here we go again," or something similar. I bring a book, but I can't really concentrate. We used to leave after 10 minutes when it was just the Houthis firing at us - they still continue their fire, but of course most of the missiles now come from Iran.  We cannot leave until we get a message from the Home Front Command saying we can leave.  Sometimes we sit for an hour or more - sometimes less, each time is different.

 One of the 'residents' is 96 years old, and quite demented. Her caregiver is an angel from Kerala. The woman, Tamar, stands up after sitting a few minutes and asks where her dog, Toffee, is. Toffee is scared of people so he stays at home, unlike Chungi a pekingese mix who loves greeting everyone and comes up to each resident to have her belly rubbed. 

"Where's Toffee?" asks Tamar.  

"At home" says her caregiver.

"Does she know I will be back?"

"Yes, she is sleeping anyway.

Then Tamar becomes increasingly anxious - "Why are all these people sitting around with long faces. The All clear has sounded."  (It hasn't) and anyway there is not an all clear. She pushes herself up, takes hold of her walker and walks toward the door. Her caregiver gently steers her back to her chair. This becomes a sort of non stop dance until we do get permission to leave or Tamar howls saying she. has to go to the toilet.

When eventually we do get the OK to leave we all say to each other "hope not to see you soon."

This is our new life. I still go to the gym - thank goodness it is open, and I try to paint and knit and do my daily meditation I go to Feldenkrais, and Arabic. There is no ceramics or hothouse work as the instructors cannot get here safely.  

Today, as I hung the laundry, cleaned the perfectly clean cutlery drawer, dusted the perfectly clean contents of my room, straigtened straight pictures and objects, I realised I am doing what I did after I was told my husband was killed, and during the First Gulf War when I was in Israel and Iraq was sending the scud missiles.  I am desperately trying to maintain a semblance of order in this chaotic existence.

I clean and organize what I can in my external surrounding.

 Isn't this what people with OCD do?