OCD, again, again, again

2:47 a.m.

I’m watching myself washing my hands, six times, air drying, before trudging slowly to class, as if I’m walking through seaweed-clogged seas, hugging the wall to avoid contact, looking down to avoid contact. Arriving. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 . . . Putting on my latex gloves. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 . . . Turning the doorknob. 1, 2, 3 . . . Waiting to a count of 1, 2, 3. Closing the door. Turning the knob . . . 1, 2, 3. Taking off my gloves. Cleaning my glasses, then turning to the wall (counterclockwise only) to check my zipper. Cleaning my glasses (again), then checking my zipper (again). Turning to the class (clockwise only), and saying without looking up, eye contact could lead to interaction, "Good morning, good morning, good morning. How's everyone, how's everyone?" Placing my dry erase markers on the desk, blue then green then red then black. Aligning them exactly 2 inches apart, three inches from the left side of the desk, 4 inches up from the desk bottom. Ready to teach, fearing a student, male, female, non-binary, neurodivergent, whatever, might come to my desk, enter my space, breathe in my clean zone. Uh oh. Here comes one, gender bending, wavering like a hologram. He's, she's, they are explaining why he, she, they haven't turned in the assignment, again, telling me about the latest illness (ADHD, PTSD, PMS-- TMI!), how society is against him, her, them, how their social media sites are slut shaming, outing, doxing, bullying them . . . Oh no! The student is reaching out a hand. Germs, contact, skin, humanity. I try to back away. I try to look down as if focusing on something else. I try to drop my briefcase as a diversion. I scream aloud in my dream, sounding like a whale calf underwater searching for safety. I dive deeper into REM, hoping for nothingness. False alarm, the student is just handing me papers, late assignments, again. "Thanks. Please place them on the table," I mumble, sleep-drooling doubt. I see the papers wriggle, alive with germs, scorching across the desktop. I'll let the papers sit for an hour, a millennium, an eternity through the class to kill most of the germs. When the students leave, I'll put my gloves back on, spray the papers with sanitary cleanser, and then put them in my briefcase. "Good morning, good morning, good morning. How's everyone, how's everyone?" I wipe off the desk with a swipe (4 times, left to right) of sanitary cleanser. I wipe my feverish forehead with the sanitary swipe. I squirt Murine

 in both eyes twice. I swig, gargle, and spit Clorox. I inject lighter fluid in my veins, again and again and again, until I awake, sweating poison pellets of anxiety.

2:53 a.m.