When I was a child, I had moderately bad OCD. Not so much an aversion to germs or a set of superstitious rituals, but a painful anxiety related to perceived disorder and an urge to put things exactly right. That meant endless straightening (90-degree angles only), cleaning for the smallest specks of dust, going back time and again to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be. Beneath this mild affliction, I learned, is a hatred of disruption, of events spilling out unpredictably and — even worse — uncontrollably.
When the world feels hostile by its very changing nature, you attach a special importance to home. Your home base is where one can reliably retreat from life’s vicissitudes. This is where things can stay the same, no matter how wild things get out there. There is security in the stasis. So, even as a child, I took care to ensure that my physical home was perfectly maintained.
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