Obsessive-compulsive disorder isn’t just being a neat freak: it’s a struggle for survival taking place inside your mind

The first time I thought someone contaminated my food was at the Paramus Park mall food court when I was 12. As the employee handed me an extra gooey Cinnabon nestled in crinkly tissue, I noticed he had a scab and a Band-Aid crossing his knuckles.

“Thanks,” I said, suddenly feeling like the floor had dropped out from under me.

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