Before I leave my apartment, I scan the burner dials on the stove to ensure that each one is off. If I leave the kitchen, say, to grab something from my bedroom, I have to check the dials again before I go out the door. A similar process takes place if I've used my curling iron that day. Check that it's off, unplugged, and resting safely without the still-hot barrel touching any surfaces. If I'm stressed, this ritual may include a few other steps. Sometimes I don't want anything plugged into any outlets in my house, just in case. And, if I'm stressed, I will repeat each “check” over and over and over. As if looking one more time will finally provide me with the feeling of certainty that I seek. Of course, I know how this works, and every time I doubt myself I am reinforcing the pathways in my brain telling me to doubt myself. If I were to look just once, trust that my visual apparatus is in working order (thank you, glasses) and leave, I would be much better off.
You can't think your way out of a doing problem. Reasoning isn't the solution to a checking compulsion — reasoning is what got us into this mess in the first place. Is the stove off? Yes. How do you know? Because I checked. How do you know that you checked? Because... I know! How do you know that you know? Haven't you been wrong about something before? Haven't you thought something was true when it wasn't? Haven't you thought you saw something that turned out to be something else? Uhhh.... Better just check one more time, to be safe.
If I'm sharing a space with someone, like my parents or my boyfriend, I will sometimes use them for reassurance. Not every time, but if I'm having a particularly hard time leaving. I will say, “Can you look at this? See that it's off? Yes? Thank you." As if their perception is more trustworthy than my own. But of course, that's the whole point. I don't trust myself, so I offload the responsibility onto someone else. When I'm alone, my phone camera often serves as this extra pair of eyes.
What's funny is that I get offended when others imply that perhaps this is for the best. What, do they not trust me? Oh, yeah, neither do I. And not trusting yourself doesn't exactly inspire trust from others. Every time my mom agrees to look at my curling iron for me instead of saying “Ali, you know that it's off” I feel indignant. But she's merely being a mother, and I did ask her to do it, after all. Ultimately, the only person I can trust to get me out of this is me.
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