Novella Chapter 2B: Early OCD – Fear of Breaking

Chapter 2B: Early OCD – Fear of Breaking (Inner Monologue)

It didn’t happen all at once.

People think OCD is loud — that it screams. But mine whispered.

At first, it was just the stove.

I was in high school. My mother was cooking. She turned to me, casually, and said:
"Don’t turn it on and off too often. It might break."

That’s it.
One line. One sentence.
Not a warning. Not a command. Just a suggestion.

But something in me took it like scripture.

I didn’t even feel afraid right away. I just remembered. Stoves can break if misused. Don’t misuse them.
A rule formed quietly in the back of my mind, like a shadow taking shape.

After that, I avoided the stove.

In the morning, if I wanted breakfast, I waited for my father. He liked helping me. Maybe because I was the good son — good grades, quiet, responsible. It made him feel proud. He didn’t know I wasn’t being filial. I was being afraid.

Afraid of breaking something.
Afraid of causing damage.
Afraid of... being blamed?

I didn’t even know.

Later, at university, it spread. I saw some of my friends’ calculators — the power switch broken off like a loose tooth. Nothing tragic. But I stared at those tiny switches like they were bones I might snap.

And the rule updated itself.

Don’t press the power button too much. Don’t be careless. Don’t break it.

So I brought two calculators to exams. One was advanced — with sin, cos, and log. But it had a power switch. The other was simpler, with no switch at all. Solar-powered. Safe.

I used the simple one unless I had to switch.

Even then, I hesitated. What if the invigilator thought I was cheating? Swapping machines mid-exam. I rehearsed explanations in my head. I prayed they wouldn’t ask.

All this… for a switch.

It sounds ridiculous now.

And yet, it didn’t feel like fear at the time. It felt like responsibility. Like caution. Like being wise.

But it wasn’t wise.

It was anxious obedience.

What haunts me is this: I wasn’t even an obedient child. I was stubborn. I still am. When people pushed, I pushed back.

So why did I obey this voice?

Why did that one line from my mother override all my instincts?

Was it her authority? The context? The moment?

Or was it something in me — a sensitivity to rules, to damage, to the unbearable thought of being the one who ruins things?

Maybe that’s it.

Maybe it’s not about the stove, or the calculator, or the switch.

Maybe it’s about the fear of causing harm I can’t undo.

Maybe that’s what OCD is:
The refusal to live with uncertainty about your own harmlessness.


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