Apologies for spelling, punctuation and grammar mistakes. She was exhausted. A teacher in her mid-thirties, she had moderate Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). It was not the quirky, light-hearted portrayal often seen on TV. Instead, it felt more like a constant and overwhelming burden—a relentless loop of intrusive thoughts that replayed dark scenarios in her mind. She had spent the last six years renting her parents’ finished basement, a choice she made out of both convenience and mental health necessity during the pandemic. The shame of staying there loomed over her, but she found it hard to leave the safety of the familiar, especially when dealing with her mental health complications.
For years, she had dreamed of having her own place, a space where she could express her creativity without the constraints of childhood furniture. Watching a friend move into an inspiring apartment reignited her courage. With the summer off and the motivation to leave her past behind, she began searching for an apartment that might feel like home.
After weeks of online browsing, she found it. An 803-square-foot gem on the first floor, bathed in sunlight and situated by a courtyard. Despite a strange, self-guided tour that left her entering through the parking garage, she found herself captivated. Yes, it was a bit humid and stuffy, but surely that was just her OCD talking. Excited about her new chapter, she signed the lease the very next day.
The move in was choppy. Her anxiety reared its head when the air conditioner failed to produce cold air, leaving her feeling like she couldn’t breathe. Maintenance was called, and a thin technician with few teeth arrived but couldn’t resolve the problem. The following day, the AC worked, but the humidity turned the pages of her books soggy, and her socks stuck to the floor. She began to spiral, questioning if the filthy grate above the air conditioning unit could mean mold lurked in the ducts, causing her throat to tickle whenever she removed her mask.
Move-in day was chaotic. After battling insomnia the night before, she was a bundle of stress as her furniture arrived. Friends helped her settle in, but her mind fixated on the humidity and potential mold. That night, as the ceiling cracked and orange spots appeared, her fears of contamination came roaring back. She penned a poem that celebrated her achievement, yet the happiness felt hollow; she was too preoccupied with thoughts of mold and self-doubt. Why couldn’t she enjoy this victory?
When her friend left, the floodgates opened. Alone, she dove into a frenzy of cleaning, only to be met with racing thoughts and panic. She cleaned well into the night, convinced that mold was forming around her. The sheets felt damp; everything seemed contaminated. Hyperventilating, she found herself unable to cope and reached for her phone at 4 AM, calling her mother in a state of crisis.
Her mother answered, and despite their history of tough love, she recognized the severity of her daughter’s distress. As they embraced, words tumbled out—fears of mold, conviction that she would be trapped in a ‘contaminated dungeon’ for a year. Her mother offered comfort, assuring her that she could come home. There, in the familiar safety of her childhood home, she sobbed and felt the weight of her mounting anxiety lift, if only slightly.
The next morning, her mind felt foggy and heavy. An emergency therapy session awaited her, bringing a small sense of clarity, but the apartment issue continued to hang like a cloud. Maintenance dragged their feet on her requests for updates, and she felt her anxiety building again. Desperate, she contacted a family friend to assess the HVAC system, hoping that professional validation would ease her fears.
When the HVAC technician confirmed her worries—filthy coils that needed professional attention—she felt a glimmer of hope that the cooling problems would soon be resolved. Perhaps her fears were baseless after all, and she could find solace in her new space. That hope was dashed when her landlord communicated that the issues would not be resolved and offered her two choices: switch units or terminate the lease without penalty.
Feeling defeated, she pondered if she had indeed sabotaged her own independence through incessant obsessing and nitpicking. She began searching for other apartments, but the fear seized her anew—what if they all had similar issues? She called her dad, teary-eyed, sharing her fears, but instead of sympathy, he chastised her for her incessant worry.
This left her at a crossroads, unsure if she should leave the apartment entirely or attempt to find a new unit in the same building. Each option felt daunting, and her fear of regression was palpable. She didn’t want to retreat back to her parents’ basement, yet the thought of continuing in her dream apartment turned nightmare seemed equally unmanageable. Exhausted and overwhelmed, her struggle with OCD was driving her life choices.
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