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OCD, just like my dad

My father used to collect soap.

I don't think he meant to, but I remember as a child, walking into my parents' bathroom and seeing a pile, a heap, of used bars of soap on his side of the counter.

It didn't strike me as strange, so much, as it did unique. I never asked why there was so much soap -- why he didn't just finish off one bar before starting another -- but I probably wondered.

In recent years there have been studies on whether OCD has a genetic component. I've been involved in a couple.

But to me, there's no question, now, looking back with more knowledge, that my father's pile of soap was a sign of obsessive-compulsive disorder.

My belief is that once he used a bar of soap for what his OCD brain told him was the "right" amount of time, it was time to move on to the next. Maybe OCD told him the old bar was no longer clean. Or maybe it just felt "wrong."

My father was interesting in that he would shower just once a week, on Sunday nights, so he'd be clean for work. That, to me, wouldn't suggest someone afraid of germs. But then he'd get out of his shower and wash his hands.

On a regular basis, he'd wash his hands raw.

I never really paid attention as he washed his hands to know how long he spent doing it. But his hands were always red, chapped, bleeding at the knuckles.

My father would brush his teeth with the same kind of vigor. My mother once told me he brushed his teeth so hard he wore the enamel off.

It makes me sad to think that my father and I shared an OCD connection and never really talked about it before he passed.

He was in his 70s before he was diagnosed. Once I found out, I tried sharing some of my OCD experiences in small pieces, but my OCD awareness was still relatively new -- I was still trying to get a grip on it myself.

I can only imagine how much less isolated we would have felt if we had shared details over time.

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