The nervous child in me

I was a very nervous child. I often blinked my eyes. I picked my nose. I involuntarily shrugged my shoulders. I reached into my pants to shift my genitals. Some of my behaviors may have been natural for my age, but they weren’t socially accepted. I wasn’t supposed to put my hands in my pants in public. I was told not to blink excessively. I couldn’t pick my nose. I shouldn’t have jerked my shoulders so nervously.

I can partly understand these norms. Our neighbors weren’t thrilled to find the products of my nasal excavations on their couch. Still, I wonder whether anyone asked why I picked my nose or was so nervous. I was only told it wasn’t okay. So, instead of resolving my tics and habits, I suppressed them. I tried to keep my eyes open longer than felt natural. I told myself it was bad to pick my nose. I adjusted my genitals from my pockets. I pounded my shoulders with my fists when they went up and down erratically.

Soon, I found a better way to hide my nervousness. I discovered mental compulsions as an alternative to physical habits. Our neighbors told me about a friend who was skilled at reversing words. I admired that feat and threw myself into learning to read and say words—even complete sentences—in reverse. People found it funny to hear words backward, but my mind automatically engaged in reversing words when I was alone as well.

Another mental pattern emerged not long after. A friend and I watched a violent movie that wasn’t appropriate for our age. In the movie, a spy had to understand a terrorist and was trained to scan rooms by counting all objects in them. Encouraged by my friend, I started doing the same. I counted the number of shelves in my closet, the panels on our ceiling, the tiles across our kitchen, and the bricks in the walls. Then, I repeated that.

Although I often spent time counting, tilings drew my attention even more. I looked for patterns in carpets, floors, curtains, and walls, and traced paths in them with my eyes. I also played games traversing grids, starting from a corner and bouncing off the edges, to see where I’d end up. In a similar way, my eyes followed, or my fingers drew the outline of brand names, logos, and objects in my vicinity.

My tics have faded into the background. Yet, however much I would have liked to get rid of certain habits and compulsions, I’m still engaging in them today, three decades later. I’ve found that cleaning my nose in the morning helps me not to pick it during the day. When I feel stressed on the road or at work, I still occasionally do so, though. When lying in bed on a Saturday morning, not being quite ready to get up yet, I count the folds in our pleated blinds. Sitting on our balcony, my eyes will invariably trace paths on the brick wall. I also often catch my mind replaying words backward or my fingers drawing logo outlines.

Recently, I learned that repetitive behaviors can actually serve a purpose. They can be a coping mechanism. Looking back, I can see they were for me. By blinking, I didn’t need to focus on my ill mother. While picking my nose, I didn’t have to worry about her declining health. My shoulders’ erratic movements served as stress relief in a life full of medical setbacks. My compulsions helped me withdraw into a mental world, where I didn’t have to notice how terrible I felt.

I’m slowly realizing that I don’t need to condemn myself for having developed tics, habits, and compulsions. I did what I could to survive a situation I was too young to handle. Do I still need this survival strategy today? Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, I just want to escape the deep pain I’m still experiencing. I’ve become better at navigating my feelings, however. My shoulders have become broader. Further growth might obviate the need for my patterns.

Will I be able to completely let go of my tics, habits, and compulsions? Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve engaged in some repetitive behaviors for over thirty years. Some mental pathways may be so deeply ingrained that I can’t unlearn them anymore. I think I could forgive myself if that was the case, though. If anything, any remaining nervousness could be my daily reminder to stop running away from my feelings.