A Love/Hate Relationship

I have a cell phone. Not unlike most people these days. I didn't get my first cell phone until I was a freshman in high school. So I was about 14. I had been bugging my parents for one, because "everyone" was getting a cell phone. "All of my friends" had them, so naturally I needed one too.

I didn't get my phone until midway through the first semester. I didn't do much with my life other than go to school and come home, so my parents generally knew where I was at all times, and didn't really have to worry about needing to call and check in on me. A phone was not a necessity for me. Until one day...

Fate smiled upon me. I had been cast in the musical at school. The Sound of Music. I was one of about 50 nuns. Point being, I had rehearsals. Sometimes I wasn't sure what time I would be done, and since I couldn't drive yet, my mom was my primary means of transportation. Rehearsal days, she would let me take her cell phone to school so that I could call her when I was finished.

One day, I called her to tell her I was done, and when she came to pick me up, she said to me, "Joanna, we have to get you a cell phone." I couldn't believe my ears, or my luck. My mom had just uttered a magical phrase. I was elated. Practically radiating joy. So much so that, at first, I didn't notice the look of lingering horror on her face.

She then proceeded to relay to me a tale of terror that made my skin crawl.

Apparently while I was rehearsing with the other nuns, my mom had to make a trip to the grocery store for my grandma. While she was out, she realized she needed to call her to ask about some items on the list. Unfortunately for her, I had her cell phone. To make her call, she had to use a pay phone.

She proceeded to describe to me an object of terror. As I've stated before, I have a problem with germs, so anything that looks germy creates an instant anxiety response in me. As my mom is telling me her story, she's explaining the pay phone. But it wasn't any old pay phone.

It was dirty. And gross.

Disgustingly, terrifyingly filthy.

It was so filthy that my mom was disgusted enough to tell my dad that I needed a cell phone so she would never again have to use such an abomination again. I have to admit, even though the thought of such a disgusting phone creeped me out, I did chuckle a little at how horrified my mom was by the situation.

Laughter at my mom's expense aside, I did get my first cell phone shortly after this experience. It was a super lame flip phone with an obnoxious green backlit screen. No texting capabilities or anything. I was ordered only to use it to call my parents when the need arose. 

Nowadays, I'm sporting an ENV2, which I suppose is getting pretty outdated already by today's standards. Mostly though, I've found this phone to be fairly reliable. Plus, it has a full keyboard, so I can text like my life depends on it. I text way more than I make actual phone calls. In recent months however, I've been noticing a troubling occurrence. Sometimes I pick up my phone to check the time or something and find...it's turned off. I never hear it power down, the battery isn't dead, it's just...off.

This annoys me. I depend on my phone for many things: the time, basic communication skills, and serving as my alarm clock, just to name a few. So finding out that my phone likes to periodically shut itself off is not a comforting thing.

Even more recently, my phone has apparently decided to step up its game. Three times now in the past couple of months, I've gone to check my phone, found it off, tried to turn it on and received this message: "Use genuine battery. Powering off." It then proceeds to count down from ten and completely shut itself off again. It's as though my phone enjoys making a mockery of me. Or it's just evil. Either explanation makes perfect sense to me.

No matter what the cause, it's a problem. I've done nothing to cause any physical damage to my phone, so my best (serious, rational) guess is that the battery is just on its last legs. I've had the phone a few years, so it's not too ridiculous to imagine that the battery might be waving the white flag of surrender.

The first time it happened, I went to the best source I could think of, Google, and looked up the problem. The solution I found over and over was to rub the connectors on the battery with nail polish remover. Seemed like a bad idea, but being desperate, I tried it anyway. Miraculously, it worked like a charm. Naturally, the second time it happened, I once again resorted to the nail polish remover trick.

By the third time, I knew what to do. I busted out the nail polish remover, swabbed the connectors, and...nothing. It didn't work at all. Distraught, I tried it again and again. When I was still met with resistance, I resorted to the next most popular solution the internet could provide me with: sticking the battery in the freezer for an hour. Again, seemed kind of like a bad idea, but I gave it a shot anyway.

Perhaps by divine intervention, that worked too. Maybe it taught my phone that I mean business. Who knows? But, between you and me (don't tell my phone), I'm seriously considering a new phone. Ever since the iPhone came to Verizon, I've been wanting one. For now, I just have to hope my phone has learned its lesson.

The Curse of Medical Students' Disease

There are often situations that arise in my life that make me stop and think "Why in the world am I like this?" Usually I am forced to admit that I have no idea.

My Abnormal Psychology professor once warned our class about "Medical Students' Disease." This is the phenomenon that occurs fairly regularly in med school students where they begin diagnosing their friends, family members, neighbors, cashiers, taxi drivers, pets, and themselves with whatever horrific illness they are currently studying. Twinge of stomach pain? Gastrointestinal bleed. Mild cough? Tuberculosis. 

A psychology student can fall prey to this "disease" as well. And I'm inclined to think it's even easier to "diagnose" someone when you're a psychology student. That girl in class who always has something to say just to hear herself talk? Histrionic personality disorder. That guy who just gave you a funny look in the hall? Paranoid schizophrenic. Any little behavior can be misconstrued as something it's really not.

I'm not so bad about making snap diagnoses of others. I tend to diagnose myself. And this is exactly what my professor warned us not to do. I actually began making diagnoses for myself two years before I was ever warned of Medical Students' Disease. It started in my Intro Psych class.

We were talking about Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I'm sure most of you are well aware of what that looks like. A&E has a show about it, very aptly named "Obsessed." Apparently A&E loves to spotlight mental disorders, because they also have "Hoarders" and "Intervention." Oh, and I think "Heavy" is also A&E. But I digress.

Pulled the image from here.

So my prof is trying to get all of us intro psych students to think about what daily life is like for a person with OCD and a severe germ phobia, since the two often go hand-in-hand. He does this by asking us to do a thought experiment.

He says to us: "Imagine your hands are covered in dog poop..." and my inner turmoil has already begun.

My notes swirl in front of my eyes into a mass of scribblings, and all I can think is "NO PLEASE SPARE ME!"

But my professor was unrelenting. Of course, he was also blissfully unaware of the turmoil I was feeling. "Imagine it's really caked on there. There is dog poop in every little nook, cranny, and crevice of your hands."

"It's under your fingernails."

"Now it's drying, and I'm not allowing you to go to the bathroom just outside the door to wash it off. You just have to sit there and deal with it."

My arms felt useless, and my hands felt like they were literally crawling with bugs. Germs. FILTH! Then, calm as can be, prof says "Who would really like to go wash their hands now?"

Slightly ashamed of myself, I timidly raise my hand, along with just a few others in the class of about 65. My friend sitting next to me kind of laughs, then looks at me and says "That bothered you?"

Now feeling even more like a weirdo for wanting to bolt to the nearest bathroom and scrub the skin from my hands, I just say "Well...*timid laugh* Yeah. I'm...I'm pretty uncomfortable right now." *more timid laughter* My friend smiles and says "Huh, that's funny," and goes back to listening to the lecture.

Meanwhile, I'm lost in my own head trying to remind myself repeatedly that there isn't actually any dog poop on my hands. It was a thought experiment, that's all. The poop isn't real. There's no poop, and no reason to wash my hands.

I suffered through the rest of the lecture, while my professor talked about how the dog poop scenario is how many OCD sufferers feel all the time. For those in the class who weren't phased by the thought experiment, I doubt they truly understood the horror of what this would feel like. Me? I left the class with one thought in my head: I'm a germaphobe with OCD.

Fast-forward two years, and I have a different professor lecturing my class on how it's common to start diagnosing yourself, but to try not to do it. Failed that task two years ago, thanks, but I appreciate the warning.

While I've never seen a psychologist and been given an "official" diagnosis, I'm pretty sure I really am mildly obsessive compulsive. I don't like touching doorknobs or door handles with my bare hands, and if I have to, I always wipe my hand off after. Among other things. But if I tried to list them all, this post would end up so long that even I wouldn't want to read it anymore. 

I suppose things could have turned out worse though. I could have diagnosed myself during a lecture on psychopathy.