minor update at the end because the word limit was too short for an individual post
Throwaway account because my friends do not need to know about this.
We’re talking a modern office chair from IKEA. Not some sofa I purchased from an antique store with bloody scratches along the back - no, this thing is bright blue with wheels for fuck’s sake. In the light of day it couldn’t be more unremarkable, to the point that I’m sitting on it as I type this. That’s part of the problem.
I guess I should give you some background, mundane as it is. One fine summer’s morning I drove down to my nearest IKEA, tried out a couple of chairs, picked one, and dragged the box home to attempt putting it together. Now, I’ll admit that if it was at some point in this process that the chair became demented, it was probably during that ordeal. I lost a wheel, put the back on the wrong way around, and fucked up an arm so badly it hasn’t stopped wobbling even three years later (that’s an arm on the chair, not mine). But hey, it ended up functional eventually, albeit with a wooden block in place of one of the wheels.
It served it’s purpose admirably in that I forgot about it completely for the reminder of the day. Come 6:00 PM, I tucked it snugly into the desk and left to go get dinner with a few friends. Well past midnight I stumbled back into my room thoroughly drunk and conked out on my bed. So far so good.
At some point in the night, my bladder woke me up, as it will do when you’ve ingested about a gallon of liquor. The moment I was conscious enough to register my surroundings, a feeling of absolute dread took over. Like, you know those stories of people who wake up inexplicably in the middle of the night to discover the gas was left on, or that someone’s broken in? That was what it felt like: a primal, lizard brain-y certainty that something was very wrong.
I sniffed for a gas leak, or smoke. Nothing. I held my breath until I was woozy for air, listening for signs of someone else in my apartment. Nothing. I must have sat there for 10 minutes straight, trying to sus out the source of my mounting anxiety - and that’s saying something considering I felt like an overfilled water balloon with a hangover. Eventually, I had to get up and tiptoe - yes, fucking tiptoe - to my bathroom, after which I sprinted back to my bedroom and attempted to jump under the blankets immediately. I say attempted because as I stood there in the doorway, with a view of the whole room, I knew precisely what was wrong with it.
The chair. It hadn’t moved or anything. It was still sitting inoffensively right where I’d left it, but the idea that it was meant to be somewhere else hit me with a certainty that I could neither reason with nor ignore. I didn’t quite know how it was meant to be though, so I went over and started turning it experimentally left and right. I didn’t even realize it was facing the mirror when I - no, it - was finally satisfied. The feeling of relief, just as intense as the anxiety from before, was enough to send me shuffling to bed without another thought.
That’s how things were for the next three years. Every night I’d brush my teeth, take a shower, and turn the chair toward the mirror before going to bed. Now, I assume at this point people will assume I’m either very dense or blowing the events of that night way out of proportion. Here’s your explanation: I have OCD.
Is it logical to feel compelled to turn your chair in a specific direction every night? No. But it’s no less ridiculous than needing to click your pen fifteen times before you use it, or tap your refrigerator door fifty times after dinner, or tap your hands together five times whenever you hear a specific word, or- look, you get the picture. It was just one more thing to add to an ever-growing daily itinerary. I won’t lie, some of my compulsions have felt something like the panic I’ve described, at the time I even went over my daily routine in my head to make sure I hadn’t missed any. But at no point have I ever felt that I was in immediate mortal danger.
For a while, I assumed my OCD had just gotten worse. I’ve had ‘flare-ups’ at different points in my life, I resigned myself to riding out another one. Had the status quo remained, I wouldn’t be posting this now. The latest development in the chair-saga is unusual enough that I can’t explain it away as a symptom of my rocky mental health status.
I’ve begun to miss the thing. Not the sort of nostalgia you usually have for home when you’ve been away. I’ve found myself cutting trips short, leaving my part-time job early, pleading off dinner dates, all to come back and sit in my chair. It was subtle at first, I thought I was just tired and wanted a cup of tea. I had something I needed to finish. I had…an overwhelming desire to sit in my beloved chair and stare out into space for an indefinite period of time. On the nights that I do stay out late, I feel like a neglectful girlfriend, and have to fight the urge to shuffle into bed, avoiding eye contact (eye contact! ) with the disapproving bit of furniture.
I hope I don’t need to state that this is not what my OCD feels like, or has ever felt like. At no point have I tried to establish a friendship with my fridge, for example. It’s an entirely alien sensation, and one that keeps intensifying every day. Already, I think I’ve become incapable to taking the chair back. I know if I ever did get rid of it, I’d feel like I’d tossed a cherished family pet into the woodchipper. No- no, I’d go back for it. I’m sure of that. I can’t let it go.
Before anyone asks - no, it is not sexual. I don’t want to do anything with the chair other than sit in it. Or maybe no one was going to ask that. I did think of it though, and a few horrified hours of Googling later, knew enough to rule out the possibility. I also now know a lot more about objectophillia than I have ever wanted to.
Does someone have any clue what I should do now? Please don’t suggest that I get rid of the chair, I truly can’t. No, I haven’t tried, I feel too guilty just considering it. I’m begining to worry that this unwillingess to leave it behind will either end in me never leaving my apartment, or in bringing it out with me wherever I go. Both situations I would like to avoid.
MINOR UPDATE:
Okay, 2 days later and I’ve got an update.
First of all, I’m sorry for being so unresponsive. I’ve just woken up.
Yes, I’ve slept nearly 48 hours straight - and I could go even longer. I’ve forced myself to start on this fairly uneventful update just so that I can keep my eyes open. I really don’t think there’s anything physically wrong with me, but just in case I’ve made an doctor’s appointment for later today. Honestly, I’m sort of hoping something is wrong so at least I can apply for sick-leave.
In other news, I’ve seen a lot of comments suggesting that the mirror is the issue, not the neon blue bit of demonic plastic I am for some reason emotionally attached to. I’ve never really thought of that, mainly because I brought it with me from my parent’s house when I moved out. It’s been hanging in my childhood bedroom ever since I was…six? seven? Needless to say, I didn’t experience these symptoms (which is what I’m calling them now) back then.
Still, I’m willing to try it out. I couldn’t claim to be an expert on the occult by any strech of the definition, who knows how this shit might work? Maybe the mirror’s pissed at being relocated after all this time, I don’t know.
So, here’s my plan going forward:
I’ll cover up the mirror before turning the chair towards it.
If that doesn’t produce anything interesting, I’ll sit in my chair all night staring into the mirror. If I actually end up seeing someone other than myself in there, this method has the added benefit of making the chair unusable. Because I will 100% piss myself. I hope to God that even a poltergeist or whatever wouldn’t bother possesing the thing after that.
If nothing changes even after that, I’ll get a friend of mine to stay over with me and see if they have the same urge to reposition the chair. Honestly, there’s still a part of me that still thinks this is my OCD on steroids. If someone without it feels the same way, I can rule that out at least.
I’m not sure why I’m bothering to list this, because the odds of me being capable of actually doing it are negligible. As a last resort, I will attempt to take the chair apart.
It’s hard to explain how difficult it is to even imagine doing that. Like, if you’ve ever had say…a cat. A cat you’ve had ever since it was a kitten, one that’s followed you around, slept on your bed, cuddled with you on the couch. Could you envision taking it…apart without wincing? That’s how I feel now. I feel sick just thinking of it.
On the other hand if I don’t do it now, I never will. I can tell that the window of time where I can actually take action about this is about to slam shut. Remember that doctor’s appointment I mentioned? Yeah, it took me three tries to finally make it through the call. Now that I’ve spent 2 peaceful days alone with my chair, the idea of not seeing it for even a couple of hours just…fuck, I’m crying again.
That’s how the first two calls with that poor, confused hospital receptionist ended: I started full-on sobbing. She ended up asking if I wanted to speak to the Palliative Care Unit, that’s how bad it was.
As for actually making it to the hospital, I’m thinking I’ll ask one of my friends to take me, that way I won’t be able to overthink my way out of it.