Living by Numbers

The human heart has four chambers. There are four horsemen of the apocalypse, four gospels, four points of the cross. It is considered as unlucky in Oriental cultures, as it sounds like the word “death”. In the English language, it is the only number with the same number of letters as its value. There are four movements in a symphony, four seasons in a year, four suits of playing cards. It is the smallest prime and the first positive non-Fibonacci number.

As you may have guessed, it’s also my lucky number. Although not the most distressing facet of my OCD, counting is probably the most invasive – from counting steps and mouthfuls to strands of spaghetti and tiles on a mosaic floor, the number four and its multiples rule my life.

Humans have a tendency to try to explain the inexplicable, to control the uncontrollable. We make links where there are none – the number thirteen is thought to bring bad luck, the act of breaking a mirror condemns the accident-prone to seven years of misery, catching the bride’s bouquet will mean that you will be the next to marry. Superstition and magical thinking surround us, and yet it is when it gets out of hand that it becomes a problem.

Of course, if you can have lucky numbers, you can also have unlucky numbers. For me, this is the number before four, and even typing it feels wrong. Three. There you go. I am not alone in having these numerical aversions – I have come across people who have changed their phone number or bank sort code so that it didn’t contain a “bad” number, sufferers who, like myself, buy all objects in multiples of their “good number” (which is okay when you need a new toothbrush, but more troublesome when it’s washing powder day) and even people who have moved house because they cannot live at number thirteen.

Let’s be honest, it’s not all bad – I’m sure that many people would like an excuse to eat four chocolate biscuits rather than just the one, but unfortunately these bonus moments are pretty scarce. I know that everyone who works at my local supermarket is aware of my problems, as are the other students living on my floor and sharing the communal kitchen – how do you explain why you are freaking out because a few grains of rice have gone down the sink without sounding just a little crazy (“Let me get this straight, if you don’t eat in multiples of four then everyone you love will die in horrible accidents?”) or becoming an object of tormenting mockery (if anybody out there shares a kitchen with someone with OCD, please refrain from removing items from their pots and pans. They will notice.).

There is a light at the end of the tunnel. CBT, or cognitive behavioral therapy, is just as effective in dealing with mental compulsions as the more physical aspects of OCD. By breaking the spell of these magical numbers, the magician, sorry, sufferer comes to terms with the fact that these thoughts, these associations, are illogical and by repeatedly facing the obsessions and resisting the compulsions (in my case, hearing a siren and not counting to four, sixty four times), the sufferer gradually builds up a level of tolerance to the fear to the point where they can simply brush it aside.

I might still need the four chocolate biscuits though.

Obsessively compulsively yours,

Bellsie