overcoming the scariness of socks

“What’s the big deal?” My sister asked as I glared down at her, my extra three inches of height giving me a feeling of dominance.

“The big deal is that you stole my socks. You walked into my room, opened my drawer, and took my socks, all without asking me first.” I replied.

“Yeah, so? They’re just socks. You have plenty, you weren’t using them, so I just borrowed them. I’ll give them back.” She rolled her eyes as she said that last part. “No, you know what? You won’t give them back. So you know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna label every single one of my socks. And if I ever, ever, see you wearing my socks again, I’m gonna kill you.” “Jesus Christ, Lauren,” my sister shook her head “you’re crazy.” With that, she turned her back on me and walked back into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Thirty minutes later, the floor of my bedroom is blanketed with socks. A majority are white ankle socks, some with a large Under Armour logo and some with a more discrete Nike emblem. There is also a handful of longer socks, ones that can be described as “decorative”, covered in stripes, polka dots, cheetah print or ingrained with glitter. All colors of the rainbow are represented, but most are dull or muted tones after having been put through the wash dozens of times. All of these different socks are alike to each other in two ways. Firstly, every sock has a match. Any sock without a match has already been tossed into the garbage or is wrangled between too-small clothing in a plastic bag labeled “Goodwill” in the garage. Secondly, every single sock, without exception, has the initials “LJ” newly scrawled on the underside in black Sharpie marker.

I have never been officially diagnosed with OCD, but all of my family and closest friends have diagnosed me with it themselves. Ever since the first grade, I can remember self-identifying myself as “more organized than most”. My skin crawls and my heart beats a few beats too fast if, when I lie down to go to sleep at night, something in my room is out of place. My closet is color-coded and, for years, had the exact same amount of space between each hanger. I had to, much to my dismay, stop doing that because it scared my mother. I live my life out through lists; lists of what needs to get done, books I want to read, groceries I need to pick up, homework that needs to be completed. The feeling of accomplishing something on a list is unmatched; a wave of joy rushes over me when I put pen to paper and mark the empty box next to a task with a check mark.

The opposite of this feeling of joy and accomplishment comes when something doesn’t get done or when something is unclean. This applies to my socks as much as anything else. The idea of my sister’s feet, likely unwashed and smelly, slipping into my socks gives me the shivers. Something inside of my brain tells me that the socks are now compromised; they have been worn by another, they are unclean.

Logically, this doesn’t make any sense. Obviously the socks will be run through the washer and become, by definition, clean once again. But I can’t help but wince when I force myself to wear socks that my sister has worn. In a perfect world, I wouldn’t have to force myself to do so. But I have realized that letting the voice in my head, telling me irrational things, run my life, will only stop me from growing and experiencing.

I will admit that sometimes this voice gets the best of me. It leads me to doing things like taking every single thing out of my closet and shutting myself inside, just to be in an enclosed space where there is nothing; no mess or clutter. Or, taking it upon myself to label every single one of my socks just because my sister borrowed a pair of them. Nonetheless, I try to make these instances as few and far between as possible. I do so in order to not only avoid sounding or seeming crazy to my friends and family, but also in order to challenge myself.

I have always been taught self-improvement is a never-ending journey. While my parents, my father especially, may have drilled this into me a little too hard at times, I appreciate them relaying the message nonetheless. I used to think always getting better could only apply to things like school and sports, things that other people can witness improvement in. But recently, I have found that it can also mean challenging yourself and making yourself uncomfortable. As humans we crave comfort, which is why all of our heating and AC bills are way too high. While that is normal and natural, I find it to be fulfilling and necessary to spend time making yourself uncomfortable.

By saying this, I don’t mean that I think people should hang off cliffs or walk alone in a sketchy neighborhood at night. There is a difference between discomfort and fear. What I mean is that people should make an effort to challenge themselves, to do something out of their wheelhouse. Maybe this means speaking up in class, or saying “hello” to someone before they say it to you. For me, it means defying the part of my brain that tells me irrational, OCD things. It means wearing the socks that my sister had borrowed instead of throwing them out like I wanted to. It also means not throwing a complete fit when I, undoubtedly, find a pair of socks with my initials on them in my sister’s sock drawer.

I cannot express the number of experiences I’ve missed because I was scared of being uncomfortable. I have made it my goal in 2022 to face those kinds of situations and experiences head-on, rather than giving into my initial instinct to opt out. Doing what makes you uncomfortable is scary, but rewarding. And even if you don’t end up enjoying it, and there is a very good chance that you won’t, at least you will be able to say that you challenged yourself and contributed to your own self-improvement, while others sit around pretending to be content with how they currently are. If I can do something as scary as wearing socks that have touched my sister’s repugnant feet, then you can too.