Confessions of a Control Freak – Part 8: A Cycle of Workaholism

Essy Knopf Confessions of a Control Freak
Reading time: 8 minutes

Confessions of a Control Freak is a memoir blog series exploring the impact of Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder, its origins, and the rocky path to recovery. Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of all featured individuals. Subscribe to receive all future posts. More about OCPD here.


I

Misattuned as I felt my mother had been to my emotional needs, I was perhaps equally wounded by my father’s growing distance.

When I was a child, however, my father and I shared precious moments in which our two worlds briefly aligned.

At bedtime, he would recite tales of Brer Rabbit, sing us lullabies, and caress our backs until we fell asleep.

Aged six, he would welcome me onto his lap. From this perch, I would read aloud the complicated Latin names of my favorite dinosaurs, my dad patiently helping me sound out the phonetics.

As a teenager, he became a loyal reader of all my derivative takes on fantasy fiction and even paid for me to attend writing classes.

Sprinkled throughout these years were spontaneous displays of generosity, such as the random purchase of a violin when I was 14, in honor of my fleeting interest in Celtic music. 

Given my dad was a music teacher, this seemed like the perfect bonding opportunity for the two of us. But 10 minutes into explaining basic fingerwork, he wandered off to attend to one of his compositions. 

Though I might be his biological child, it was my father’s creative progeny that required special attention most. 

Beg for his help though I might, it was clear by my dad’s glazed look that it was a wasted effort.

In all fairness to my father, his music was a ticket out of inner torment; a torment I suspect only later deepened by the perception he might have neglected his family.

Essy Knopf Confessions of a Control Freak
Me again with my trusty too-small homburg.

II

In my teen years, I came to regard my father as a boarder with whom I had been forced to lodge and my mother as a reluctant landlord.

Her chief concerns, it seemed, were custodial: ensuring her three kids were clothed, fed, and housed.

And yet when it came to talking to us, her manner could best be described as irritable and remote.

Her ability to disguise these feelings when interacting with other people, however, was remarkable.

Let’s say she was mid-confrontation with me or one of my siblings when the phone rang. Within an instant, she would go from barking at us to courting friends and distant relatives with a charm she seemed to hold in reserve for everyone else.

Should we interrupt by asking a question or requesting her intercession in a conflict, my mother’s beaming face would transform into a sheer rock face.

“I’m on the phone,” she would eventually snap, holding the receiver to her chest. “Be quiet!”

Our existence having apparently been forgotten, she would resume her call, feigning laughter at something the other person had just said. 

Mom’s ability to shift gears so seamlessly was quite the performance feat, yet I took it simply as evidence of her untrustworthiness.


III

For someone who was so keenly interested in the big picture, mom never resisted the urge to zero in on granular details.

All of our clothes had to be ironed before we were presented in public. Every meal was to be made from scratch, with only the freshest ingredients. 

On the matter of nutrition, mom was generally adamant, refusing to let us enjoy the heavily processed treats other kids my age were buying on their lunch breaks—soft drinks, sausage rolls, and cream buns.

Sweets were a very boom-and-bust type of situation in our household. The booms were usually dictated by the hospitality of a houseguest.

My aunty might appear with a box of Whitman’s Sampler Assorted Chocolates, and the next day or so it would be gone, devoured by me and my voracious siblings.

And there were other deviations, such as the time my mother treated us to chocolate croissants, cream-stuffed eclairs, Danish butter cookies, and almond fingers. 

One time, while driving past a cheesecake shop, I mused aloud to myself how much I would just love to have a slice.

Upon hearing this, my mother turned the car around, led me to the shop counter, and helped me pick out an entire cake. Once we were in the car, I stared down at the open cake box on my lap with all the greed of a half-starved urchin looking at his first meal in days.

Two concerns were foremost in my mind. The first was that upon seeing the cake, the rest of the family would most certainly want a portion. 

But this was an opportunity that would likely never repeat itself, and so I was reluctant to divvy up my unexpected prize. 

The second concern was how I was possibly going to cram the entirety of the cake into my stomach in a single sitting.

“Have another one,” my mother said, once I had finished my first piece.

“I feel so guilty,” I groaned, licking mango-flavored glaze from my fingers.

“If you want more, have it,” my mother said.

Feeling quite the glutton, I snuck a glance at my mother, half-expecting to see a look of disapproval. But instead, there was no expression at all, save for the ghost of a smile.


IV

The factor that perhaps left me feeling most unsafe in our household, however, was the hypercritical atmosphere.

My parents might have usually spared us the lash, yet they were quick to condemn anyone or anything who failed to meet their standards. 

We might be listening to a woman on the radio confess to eating dirt while pregnant, only for mom to snort about how much of an “idiot” she was.

At the mention of sexual intercourse on a TV program, my father would mutter angrily about “fornication” and change the channel. 

That which was deemed to be a threat often merited a full-force response. Mention a hostile comment made by a school teacher, and my mother would swing right onto the warpath, vowing to “fix” the individual in question.

This ambient judgment often took the form of no response at all. One time, I dared to play them a demo of a music track I had recorded with a local community group. 

I forced them to sit through three minutes of my nasal crooning, awaiting the praise I believed should follow, but they said nothing. Their silence spoke louder than any outright criticism might have otherwise.

waited expectantly for the obligatory praise I believed should follow, but they said nothing. And their silence really spoke louder than any outright criticism might have otherwise.

Essy Knopf Confessions of a Control Freak
During a trip to Tasmania with a friend.

V

Encouragement, it seemed, was about as exotic to my parents as pepper was to the early Romans; a rare commodity, to be utilized in extremely small quantities.

While I came to accept “straight-talking realist” as the family motto, I often felt crushed under the weight of things left unvoiced.

This feeling of never quite being able to measure up would eventually set the adversarial tone of our relationship. 

As teens, my sister and I learned to watch for when my parents donned their defensive carapaces during our many conflicts.

When those carapaces yielded spines, we would respond by breaking out in mocking imitation, imitation we had learned from them.

Exaggerated though these impersonations might be, they had the desired effect of silencing my parents or freezing the joints of their lumbering authority.

They called us scornful and disrespectful, but what no one seemed to realize was that this scorn and disrespect were rooted in untold agonies. 

As children, we had turned to our parents in search of comfort and reassurance, and time and time again, we had found them to be fresh out. 


VI

My brother’s rule-breaking ways may in part have been a reaction to this, a kind of one-child rebellion against a perceived abandonment.

Try as my parents did to overcompensate after his many apparent cries for attention—for example, by excusing the disappearance of money, the breaking of glass, the bruising of faces—nothing seemed to work.

In the absence of their protection, I took to hiding in my room, avoiding shared spaces for fear of a violent attack.

Even after my brother moved out, the tension that descended upon our home did not lift.

If my parents ruminated already about financial woes or lack of career success, they found new gristle for the mill by worrying endlessly about what end my wayward brother might meet.

Their preoccupation with his fate drained what little stores of patience and tolerance they had left, until at last, they ceased in my mind to be my parents, becoming instead mere functionaries.

Their only role now was twofold: administering the basic necessities of life, and putting me right if I ever strayed from the (very) straight and narrow.

It was only a matter of course, therefore, that I also don the carapace that would become my own personal iron maiden.


VII

Personality disorders, as it turns out, are as much a product of nature as they are nurture. 

The development of my obsessive-compulsive personality disorder (OCPD) thus was likely the result of an existing genetic predisposition and the perceived lack in my childhood environment.

Eagle-eyed readers may have noticed similarities between my behavior and my own. While my mother would never seek an OCPD diagnosis, the traits of this condition I believe were present from the earliest.

Mom was, for example, an avowed perfectionist who managed to carve out a successful career for herself as a chef. 

From humble beginnings flipping hotcakes at a cafe and making traditional Iranian stews and jeweled rice at home, to running her own successful fusion-style restaurant, my mother had a kind of culinary Midas touch. 

Once she turned her hand to recreating a range of cuisines, few would remain outside of her wheelhouse.

From my childhood onward, I was spoiled with a variety of dishes: multi-layered birthday cakes, stir-fried noodles, tandoori curry, and chicken fajitas.

My mother’s successes however were as much a matter of talent as dedication. Much of her time was spent poring over cookbook after cookbook, recipe testing, and attending community college.

But the obsessiveness she brought to her work when taken to the extreme, as it so often was, had other consequences.

Long hours, little pay, abusive and exploitative bosses—there was no challenge, it seemed, which my mother was willing to rise to in the name of workaholism.

If the special work shoes she had to wear were too small for her feet, she would shove them on the same, until the little toes had become permanently deformed from the near-constant pressure.

If the cost of mom’s grueling work was that she returned home exhausted, stressed out, and manic, it was one she would happily endure. 

The solution to such feelings, as it turned on, was to take on more work.

While downtime may have been a luxury my strung-out mom didn’t believe she could afford, her entrapment inside an anxious cycle of workaholism was, as I would later realize, self-perpetuated.

Mom had chased this career not simply because it provided a sense of mastery, however fleeting. 

She chased it because the only antidote she could imagine for her perennial anxiety was by pursuing new challenges. 


VIII

The extent to which this pattern was hereditary would not become apparent until later when my mom told me of the hardships her Iranian mother—my grandmother—had undergone.

Married at the age of 14, grandmother had been shipped off to live with a man 10 years her senior.

Iran had been wracked by famine at the close of World War II, and grandmother’s only choice had been to leave her newborn infant at home with the in-laws while she stood in a food line for days.

The single loaf of bread she received for her efforts was littered with the droppings of cockroaches and was by no means enough to sustain the family.

Just a few weeks later, after largely subsisting on sugar water from a sponge, her son died of malnourishment. 

The profound suffering that followed would leave an indelible mark upon my grandmother’s household—and the psyches of her surviving children.

The mark was most visible in the way my mother held herself, as one in a constant state of tension. She lived as one awaiting catastrophe.

I saw the mark also in how she kept the fridge and pantry stocked to the brim, as if in anticipation of food shortages.

This was a habit I would find myself adopting in time, justifying my purchases by mentions of discounts or convenience, never quite understanding that the legacy had begun well before my time.


Confessions of a Control Freak continues with Part 9: “A lantern of hope”.

Confessions of a Control Freak – Part 9: A Lantern of Hope

Essy Knopf Confessions of a Control Freak
Reading time: 7 minutes

Confessions of a Control Freak is a memoir blog series exploring the impact of Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder, its origins, and the rocky path to recovery. Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of all featured individuals. Subscribe to receive all future posts. More about OCPD here.


I

My mother’s status as a domestic warrior was well-earned. When confronted, she always knew how to stand her ground, and was willing enough to go to war—if the situation called for it.

For how else was she to keep our always endangered, and now-fragmenting family together?

And so she fought, punching up when necessary, combating a seemingly hostile universe.

At age six, a traffic cop issued my mom a ticket after my brother was found not to be wearing his seatbelt. 

This affront was meant with aggression, my mother muttering her defiance at the officer.

The issue at hand wasn’t that she was responsible for the actions of my rule-breaking brother. It was that this so-and-so had dared to correct her, and so doing, pierced her shell.

My mother’s force of will, the finality of her conviction, and her calm command in other situations had a magnetizing effect, forever drawing others towards her. 

As her son, her presence could inspire at various times admiration, awe, embarrassment, and resentment.

The immaculate appearance she demanded of us when it came time for family photos, led me more towards the latter. 

In these situations, our hair was always combed and parted just so, our shirts tucked in, and our shorts practically hitched up to our armpits. 

Never mind that this presentation was forced and uncomfortable, and would almost certainly result in some form of childish defiance: pouting or pulling silly faces.

As a teenager, my mother would comment on the size of some new zit, then descend on the offending whitehead with her nails.

Choosing to receive this as some form of devotion, I would stand there, braving the painful sting. Only later would I realize I could have just as easily told her “no”.

My mother might justify impositions as acts of love, but perhaps what I wanted most was an acknowledgment that my feelings were not immaterial; that any request for help merited more than a glance or an outright dismissal.


II

During one visit to the dollar store, I bent to sniff a bath bomb—an ill-fated decision that resulted in a fit of sneezing. 

Such was the violence of these sneezes that I ended up throwing out my back. 

“Ow, ow, ow,” I cried when even the simplest movements sent pain arcing through me. 

Complain though I might to my mother, she only continued with her browsing. 

Having failed to extract a response, I hobbled out of the store to sit on a bench.

Three days of excruciating pain later, I had been contorted into the shape of a hunchback. 

The surfeit of visual evidence meant my plight was no longer deniable, and so my mother made an appointment with a chiropractor.

Until then, however, she seemed taken by the conviction that perhaps I had been exaggerating my affliction, in some undeserved bid for sympathy. 

That I was, to use the term so often bandied about in our household, a “hypochondriac”.

Another time—in what was to be our first and last family cruise together—I came down with a mysterious illness.

For days, I lay in a cot, drifting in and out of sleep, weak, exhausted, my gut wracked by agonizing spasms. 

“Something’s wrong,” I remember telling my mom. “My body’s not even processing food anymore.”

“You just have a stomach virus,” my mother told me. “It’ll pass.” 

“Please take me to see the ship doctor,” I begged. 

Similar symptoms had plagued me from puberty onwards, so my arguing for treatment was, by now, an old battle for recognition.

“No,” went my mother’s response. “The doctor charges $100 for a consultation. Besides, all he will do is take an aspirin. It’s a waste of money.”

Justified as she might have been in questioning the quality of the on-board medical services, the result was three days of potentially avoidable suffering.

It would be more than a decade before I arrived at a diagnosis of Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and learned of the existence of antispasmodic medications. 

But until then, other fits of related illness would—for lack of any other explanation—receive similar treatment.

Essy Knopf Confessions of a Control Freak
After a bike ride with a friend.

III

Six months later, while reaching across our kitchen’s island counter to hand me a bowl, my mother accidentally smashed it into the edge.

The movement carried the broken-edged shards directly into my hand, cutting open my left index finger. 

For a moment, all I could do was stare in shock at the open flag of skin, the blood that welled and ran down my hand.

“Mum, I need to go to the doctor’s,” I said.

“Don’t be silly,” she said, dabbing a blob of Johnson’s Baby Cream on the open wound and binding it with sticking plasters. “It’s not that bad.”

But even as we watched, the plasters darkened, the blood soaking through. 

“Please take me to the doctor’s,” I repeated. 

“Go yourself,” she said, walking away. “I’m not paying for you.”

Determined to hold her to account, I continued to nag and guilt-trip my mother, knowing that forcing her to spring for the doctor’s fee was the only concession I’d ever get.

Yet each time she would deny me, insisting the wound would close on its own. It did not. 

A week later, the deadlock was broken. After showing the unhealed wound to a houseguest, my mother dropped me at the doctor’s office. 

I sat on an examination table as the doctor studied the flap of dead skin and the raw tissue beneath.

When I explained to her my mother’s promise that the wound would close, he scoffed.

“It was never going to heal,” he said. “And even if it did, it would have healed properly. You would have had a deformed finger.”

And with that, he raised a scalpel and severed the flap.

That my mother would be willing to deny the extent of the injury now beggars belief. It also contrasted sharply with her terror when my 11-year-old self was attacked by a neighborhood dog. 

Back then, there had been no war of words between us; no refusal to admit harm, no aversion to being proven wrong. 

Rather, my mom had immediately flown into action, driving full-speed to a medical clinic and carrying me to the reception, shouting for a doctor.

So why now the refusal to admit that I had been injured? Why the denial?

Eventually, I came to see that denial was one of many defenses mom employed. 

If my mother was a battle-ax, admitting error only dulled her edge. 

And yet where this stubbornness brought success in other avenues of her life, it ultimately drove a wedge between us.


IV

While my peers spent their weekends partying and binge drinking, I spent most days locked up in my room studying. 

These efforts would ultimately lead to outstanding academic success. And yet storm clouds seemed to forever hover over my mother. 

Had she looked closely enough, she might have taken pride in the fact I had gradually become a carbon copy of her perfectionist workaholic self.

Not that, at that age, I saw any problem with this. Rather, I had chosen to cast my behavior as a valiant attempt at overcoming the relentless bullying I’d suffered at the hands of my brother and peers. 

Fear also had fuelled my efforts. I remained as conscious as ever that my family stood on the precipice, after learning our private school had agreed to partially waive fees on the grounds of financial need.

There was also the realization that so long as I remained under my parent’s roof, I would be denied a modicum of emotional safety.

Withdrawing into my studies served as a lantern of hope in the deepening darkness. A solid work ethic offered a clear path forward, out of my misery.

If I was industrious, if I kept busy, I would one day enjoy success, and with it the vindication of my shame-riddled self-esteem.

For experiences had led me to believe that all that had gone awry in my life was a direct result of my own actions. 

In the back of my mind, I entertained the belief that I was a bad person entirely deserving of the lot I had been given.

Essy Knopf Confessions of a Control Freak
Taken during a meal at my mom’s restaurant, when I was going through my earrings phase.

V

For my last two years of high school, I walked a tightrope of constant study and near-total social isolation. When I strayed from it, I was punished.

Having caught my brother caught dealing weed from our house, my parents kicked him out for good, and so their anxieties found a new focus in me.

Once, following a fight with my sister, my mother refused to hear my side of the story, declaring me the sole wrongdoer. 

For two weeks, she refused to speak to me, until at last, I snapped.

“You’re emotionally blackmailing me,” I said.

It was a term I’d heard on Oprah, a term that seemed to explain my feelings of injustice about the situation.

My mother barked scathing laughter.

“Oh, you think you know everything now, don’t you?” she said.

This response by now was rote. Trying to explain my feelings often resulted in them being argued, as in a court of law.

“If that’s how you choose to feel…” my parents would say as if emotions could only ever be a matter of choice. 

After one such confrontation, I declared I was moving out and demanded my mother sign a social welfare form stating I was financially independent of her.

Mom’s response was flat-out refusal. When I promised to follow through with my plans, she threatened to call the police to assist in keeping me at home, if necessary.

According to her, I wasn’t ready for independence. The fact I had “wasted” savings from my part-time job on an Xbox game system was only evidence of this. 

My mother was still trying desperately to hold the family together, even as it came apart. To her, letting me go would only spend its end.


VI

If ours had become a household largely devoid of affection, it was no surprise I began looking for it elsewhere.

Using a phone text chat service, I struck up a relationship with an older man in New Zealand. 

A few kind words, an interest in my emotional wellbeing, a promise that all would be well—these were the morsels for which I had been desperately searching, on my hands and knees no less. And now, it seemed, I had found them.

Always one for honesty, I told my parents that I planned to meet this charming stranger, and they immediately swooped in to stop me.

Evidently, I was not well in the head. Firstly, I was at risk of being taken advantage of by a man more than 10 years my senior.

Secondly, my homosexual inclinations were evidence of a hormonal imbalance that would need to be treated by a professional. 

In my parent’s view, I was a drunken motorist skidding toward a fatal conclusion. In my view, they were a mounting weight under which I had begun to suffocate.

If they were indeed trying to protect me, as they claimed to be, why then had they allowed my volatile brother back into the house time and time again? 

It no longer mattered to me that they were fulfilling their parental mandate—had ensured that bills were paid, clothes were washed and school lunches prepared.

None of it could compensate for their blatant disinterest in my emotional wellbeing. And so I fled.


Confessions of a Control Freak continues with Part 10: “A tug-of-war”.

Confessions of a Control Freak – Part 10: A Tug-of-War

Essy Knopf Confessions of a Control Freak
Reading time: 5 minutes

Confessions of a Control Freak is a memoir blog series exploring the impact of Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder, its origins, and the rocky path to recovery. Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of all featured individuals. Subscribe to receive all future posts. More about OCPD here.


I

Long after I moved out of my parent’s home, the methods of survival I’d developed endured.

The drive to find safety and self-worth in rules, rigidity, and productivity only intensified with each passing year, becoming like a sea wall against an ever-hungry tide of uncertainty.

When others condemned my neurotic behavior, assailing the castle of my mind, I retreated into the inner sanctum of solitude.

Sure, I might have independence now, but my freedom was not total.

Though I might have removed my parent’s critical voices, I had somehow internalized them in the form of a malignant bully who forever questioned, undercut, and gloated. 

“I told you so, I told you so,” he would shrill, the instant misfortune struck.

Everyday decisions seemed fraught with the possibility of crushing failure, and by extension, annihilation. 

If I overspent, I wouldn’t be able to pay bills or everyday expenses. If I couldn’t pay bills, I would end up homeless and destitute.

And so I ran, on and on, towards what I didn’t know, and away from a terrible secret. Something had happened to me, to my family, something for which I didn’t yet have a name.

My flight left me oscillating between depressive collapse and anxious over-functioning. 

No longer did I live in the present. Rather, my head was now forever lodged in a catastrophic future, while my body was reduced to a mere vehicle for never-ending prevention work. 

Pursuing my zillionth degree or writing the latest novel, I would later realize, was less a question of passion than sandbagging doors and taping window panes against the approaching floods.

Every effort towards which I devoted myself must therefore be in the service of financial security and the semblance of safety.

Yet so long as I continued to go through life in a crouch, burdened with grief I did not understand, that safety would remain elusive. 

Part of the challenge was the inaccessibility of that grief, like a dangerous blade kept behind lock and key; a blade whose mere prick could poison and corrupt.

But that grief could never be completely contained, leaking out instead in the form of strange beliefs: that one day I might completely lose control, go mad, or die having ever been truly understood.

To experience this grief in its totality, therefore, brought the risk of mental obliteration; my dissolution into a human puddle.

Those few times I did weep, emotions did not flow so much as erupt from the faucet at full blast.

Within seconds, however, that flow would cut off, quite randomly.  Not now, my brain would tell me. Later—always later. 

Essy Knopf Confessions of a Control Freak
Posing on some cliffs along the scenic Bondi to Coogee Coastal Walk.

II

All it took to remind me that this legacy of unresolved trauma, as it turned out, was a visit to my parents on college break.

“Go and get a job,” my mother hollered at me once.

The comment came as a response to my showing her a playful, synth-infused pop song I’d spent some hours throwing together.

According to my mother, the lyrics had been found wanting.

“‘You know you’re treading on thin ice/Everybody loves my sugar and spice’,” my mother jeered. “I mean, what kind of crap is that?”

I mean, okay, it wasn’t my finest work. But come on—I was 19! And how many 19-year-olds are winning songwriting awards? 

Old unresolved hurts had been tapped, and my anger surged. Despite having lived out of home for two years now, my mother’s disapproval still carried all the weight it had when I was six.

Yet the same tactics my mother had deployed against me could just as easily turn upon her. So now when slapped, I had begun slapping back.

The first blow from my hand had come in the form of a silent departure when I was 17. Packing my bags, I had left, offering neither of my parents a farewell hug nor a kiss. 

“Think you have control over me?” was my intended message. “Well, think again.” 

If my folks refused to give me the satisfaction of a reaction, there was gratification alone to be found in the act of slapping in and of itself.

Still, no matter how strong a stance I took, boundaries continued to be encroached upon, and resentment fanned anew.

Upon discovering I had asked the hairdresser for a mini mohawk, my mother’s critique was immediate. 

“What were you thinking?” went the demand.

Prompted by a round of unprovoked needling one time when I was helping my mom in her restaurant, I snapped.

“You’ve already lost one son,” I spat. “Do you want to lose the other one?”

Not, admittedly, my finest moment, but I was desperate. Nothing, it seemed, was getting through to my mom. 


III

Again and again, we would revert to the old pattern.

During one two-week visit, mom—apparently resenting my freeloading off her hospitality—told me to “get a job”.

At the time, I was on college break, but that didn’t exactly mean I had been loafing around. In actuality, college break was when my workaholism tended to swing into overdrive.

In this case, it meant I was now spending my waking hours juggling multiple creative projects.

Yet my mother’s comments had had their apparently intended effect. My self-confidence thus demolished, I spent the next few days steeping myself in her scorn. 

No matter how hard I worked, nothing it seemed would ever be “enough” for my mom. 

One morning she found me sitting on the front steps of their house, weeping. 

“You know Essy, you don’t seem to be enjoying your stay here,” she declared. “There’s no point staying here if you’re going to be miserable.”

“I’m miserable because you say and do mean things to me,” I said.

“If you want, you can leave early,” my mother continued. “I’ll pay for you to change your flight.”

But this callousness in the guise of care only made me cry more. 

My mother’s subsequent withdrawal without acknowledging my words felt like a thousand prior abandonments, and overcome, I donned some boots and went marching off into a nearby thicket. 

For an hour, I sat on a log, wrestling with my despair, until my mother—evidently worried by my absence—began calling and texting, trying to entice me home. 

Her calls and texts however went ignored, and when I finally did return, I noticed immediately a softening of her tone. 

The batch of freshly baked cookies on the counter wasn’t exactly an admission of guilt, but it seemed to suggest some contrition on her part.

Essy Knopf Confessions of a Control Freak
During a bushwalk above the town of Bowral.

IV

The more I learned to divorce myself from parental expectations—to discern my own internal voice from the one I’d inherited—the less content I became with our status quo.

Soon my visits precipitated some form of clash; a collision of views, a savage tug-of-war.

“Essy, when you use the microwave, can you please make sure you clear the timer?” my mother once said.

“Why?” I demanded.

“Because displaying numbers will wear out the LCD screen,” she said. I rolled my eyes.

“LCD…” I muttered. “More like OCD.”

“I am not OCD.”

“Son,” my father began intervening, “don’t argue with your mother. Just do as she says.”

“Even if it’s incorrect?” I replied.

Petty? Sure. But this conflict wasn’t simply about a microwave LCD display. It was about me refuting my mother’s desire for control.

Yes: I wanted the embrace of a family—but only so long as it was on equitable terms.

And for equity to exist, there would need to be some recognition. Healing couldn’t occur until we had first dragged everything we’d left shut out in the dark was dragged back into the light.

The times I did try to broach what had gone down in our household, however, the conversation was quickly shut down. 

“We did the best we knew how,” went the refrain.

“We put a roof over your head. You never went hungry.” “There’s no point in bringing any of this up. It’s in the past now.” “We’ve already put this behind us. Why can’t you let this go?”

Discussion of individual wrongs during family gatherings was usually enough to incite return fire, resulting in a kind of battle royale, as each member reclaimed old, familiar positions and dug in.

Breaking the pattern, I realized, was not going to be easy. And the only way I could truly begin the process was by looking beyond the family unit.


Confessions of a Control Freak continues with Part 11: “An eater of poison”.

Confessions of a Control Freak – Part 11: An Eater of Poison

Essy Knopf Confessions of a Control Freak
Reading time: 8 minutes

Confessions of a Control Freak is a memoir blog series exploring the impact of Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder, its origins, and the rocky path to recovery. Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of all featured individuals. Subscribe to receive all future posts. More about OCPD here.


I

The decision to undertake kickboxing in my early 20s was as much motivated by the novelty as I was by the chance to channel my anger.

Until this point, all I’d had for outlet was my workaholism—hardly the most healthy outlet. 

Kickboxing promised to take me away from my desk, but also provide me with the opportunity to meet new people.

During weekly group practice sessions, I befriended a man by the name of Miles.

Miles was an event planner who’d recently split with his partner of seven years after making the painful discovery that the other man had been cheating on him with a work colleague.

Following the breakup, Miles had come into a newfound spirituality, an experience that had prompted him to give up his well-paid job to study homeopathy full-time.

To finance the career move, he’d sold his apartment in Potts Point, Sydney, using the proceeds of the sale to acquire a significant collection of crystals, these Miles credited as being central to his recovery.

While I didn’t quite share Miles’ belief in the restorative power of crystals, he struck me as a kind man with a maternal instinct that rivaled even that of my mother. And yet that instinct, just like hers, came with strings attached. 

Upon learning I was suffering from Irritable Bowel Syndrome-type symptoms, Miles went into full mother duck mode, insisting on treating me himself.

This treatment involved holding bottles of various homeopathic concoctions to my thyroid gland. Next, Miles would press the index and middle finger of one hand to the skin, while making rapid air quotes with the fingers of his other hand.

According to Miles, he was measuring “the vibrations”, seeking confirmation that I was deficient in this or that vitamin. 

This formed the basis for his decision to then serve me diluted amounts of each concoction in a glass of water.

Days later, Miles would inquire as to whether I was feeling better, a question prompted less by genuine curiosity than confirmation bias. 

Miles I realized wasn’t so much interested in the truth; to tell him that his medicine had had no appreciable benefit on my health I sensed would have incited hostility. 

And so I learned to keep my responses vague and evasive. 

“Uh, yeah…I think I feel better.”

After months of these treatments, I advised Miles that I didn’t want to continue receiving, whereupon he bridled.

“This stuff is liquid gold,” he said, hoisting one of the amber glass bottles into view. “Clearly you just don’t know how to appreciate quality.”

It was not the first, nor the last, swipe Mike would take at me; a tendency I realized spoke less to my own wrongdoings than a deep bitterness on his part.

“You know Essy, I really hate people,” he confided one time.

“Come again?” was my response.

“I just think they’re all so stupid,” he said. This confused me.

“I thought you changed careers because you wanted to help them.” Miles shrugged.

“I know that doesn’t bode well for my chosen profession. But I can’t help it.”

Essy Knopf Confessions of a Control Freak
If I ever happened to see a flower in full bloom during a neighborhood walk, chances were I wanted to take a photo with it.

II

Some weeks later, while sharing breakfast with Miles and two of his best friends, I recognized someone I’d seen in a TV documentary.

The documentary was about aspiring directors attending an exclusive film school in New York. 

Excited by the chance to meet what I considered to be a minor filmmaking celebrity, I announced that I was going to go over and say hello…only for Miles to suddenly round on me.

“Just sit the f*** down,” he snapped.

Shame colored my face. For an instant, I was a child again, subject to the stern chastising of my parents.

Stunned that none of Miles’ friends had even come to my defense, I withdrew into myself, saying nothing.

Afterward, we were walking down a narrow alley towards Miles’ car when a hatchback sedan came zooming down the road, almost clipping one of Miles’ friends.

Miles kicked the trunk, causing the driver to stomp on the brakes. 

A bespectacled man climbed out, peering up at what he took to be the source of the assault. Upon seeing no one standing on the balconies above, he turned his attention to us.

“Did you just throw something at my car?”

Relishing the chance to put someone in their place, Miles accused the man of almost hitting his friend. 

Rather than refuting the claim, the man responded by screaming at Miles, who in turn screamed back.

Where before I had felt shame, I now felt secondhand embarrassment—a feeling I suspect was shared by the motorist’s wife, who remained in the car, head bowed. 

Half-afraid Miles might turn on me if I raised either of the incidents, I decided to let them slide.

But a week later, I found myself finally speaking out. We were in Miles’ blue Ford Mustang convertible, en route to my apartment, where he was due to help with moving some boxes to my new home.

This time, it was he who was speeding down a dark alley. A figure appeared in the beam of Miles’ headlights, just a few feet ahead—a man carrying shopping bags.

“Miles, seriously, slow down!” I shouted.

The pedestrian, reacting on instinct, jumped out of the way, narrowly avoiding being struck.

“You realize you’re doing exactly what that other driver did, right?” I asked.

Miles didn’t reply, though I could tell by his expression I had hit a nerve. 

When we arrived at my new home, I invited Miles in and immediately busied myself with unpacking a box of kitchenware he’d just donated.

I was still unpacking the box when I felt Miles’ hot glare fall upon me.

“You know it’s really rude not to offer your guests drinks,” he said.

“You’re more than welcome to help yourself,” I replied absently, indicating the fridge. 

As we’d been hanging out for months, I’d hoped such formalities were no longer necessary. Miles stiffened.

“You should really be offering me something,” he insisted.

From the very first time Miles had sniped at me, a feeling had begun germinating: indignation.

Several times now, he had overstepped personal boundaries, attempting to browbeat me into compliance. The dynamic was not all that different from the one shared by me and my mother.

But if that relationship had taught me anything, it was that backing down was almost always tantamount to defeat. 

Turning to Miles, I fixed him with my stare.

“Stop bullying me.” 

Miles’ angry response was as sudden and fierce as a flash fire.

“After everything I’ve done for you…” Miles seethed. 

“Miles,” I began, “stop…bullying…me.”

“You need to think long and hard about how much of a good friend I’ve been to you,” he spat. “Such ingratitude.”

Thus confronted, Miles turned then and swept out of my apartment.

The two of us had become like two abutting mountains for whom compromise was categorically impossible.

No surprise then that Miles and I never spoke to one another ever again.


III

In hindsight, I can now recognize the forcefulness with which I responded to Miles, and how that only served to escalate the situation.

It’s possible that I could have negotiated my boundaries with Miles more tactfully. Yet for someone who had struggled so long to find his voice, that moment felt like a true triumph.

Not merely because I had stood up for myself, but because it involved recognizing—and breaking—a pattern.

Miles as it turned out was one of several maternal or paternal figures to whom I became attached after moving out of my folks’ home.

What I had desired from their presence was the certainty of familiarity. Yet having fled the old, I’d settled for more of the same under the guise of something new. 

This time, however, I had not waited for things to take their course. Rather, I had resisted, and in so doing, started to become my own person.

Even so, the situation had revealed to me startling parallels between Miles’ behavior and my own. 

When in the heights of my workaholism and perfectionism, I too could be rigid and bossy; had tried to exert control over others.

Essy Knopf Confessions of a Control Freak
A photo taken on a whim of me posing on an armchair…left on the street for curbside garbage collection.

IV

My growing self-awareness about these challenges began with a song I wrote during a brief music-making phase. 

“Bow your head, my friend, this path is best taken,” the lyrics ran. “These hammers flatten, these whetstones sharpen / Like a manufactured object, we come out no weapon / But a tool—a tool of self-salvation.”

This song, titled “Lord of Industry”, was penned in tribute to my own version of the Protestant work ethic. 

It was more or less a rationale for my worshiping at the altar of workaholism; a recognition of productivity as a healthy coping mechanism.

Like the peacock in an anecdote often told in mindfulness circles, I was a creature with a singular appetite for cobras. An eater-of-poison, capable of drawing nourishment from the most unlikely of sources.

This ability enabled me to transform the toxic into the beautiful: to yield the iridescent tail feathers for which my kind was so renowned.

“Lord of Industry” was therefore an attempt to persuade myself of the immaculacy of this philosophy—one that tended increasingly towards atemporal claustrophobia.

If time was a currency, I seemed to be forever running short. Every hour of the day was now earmarked for work. Yet how else could I have otherwise met the daily quotas I’d declared necessary to reviving my deflating self-worth?

For peak performance to be possible, full control of myself, my circumstances, and others I believed was entirely necessary.

This need for control was often viewed by others as a kind of megalomania. And for someone who already believed themselves fundamentally misunderstood, their accusations only served to deepen this conviction.

Knowing that those around me could not be relied upon for acceptance, I turned ever more towards the twin refuges of workaholism and perfectionism, substituting pain for defiance. 

In the words of the protagonist of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem Prometheus Unbound: “Pain is my element as hate is thine. Ye rend me now: I care not.”


V

Yet I soon began to question: just how much of my ritualized behavior was a strength, and how much of it was thinly disguised self-flagellation? 

From whence came this compulsion to forever measure my worth by my output?

And: by forever working, managing and perfecting, was I learning to accommodate the many ambiguities of life, or merely dodging them?

With each passing year, the sun only dipped further towards the horizon, lengthening the loneliness that followed me like a shadow.

That shadow had appeared following the erosion of my family: a development I increasingly seemed unable to recall.

Trauma, I would discover, had slammed shut the doors of memory, fragmenting the coherent narrative of the past into a million shards.

All my attempts to piece that narrative back together had only served to wound me, drawing blood. 

In order to survive, I had learned to compartmentalize, splitting off a part of myself. 

This alienated part of my identity was like a neurotic homunculus; a representation of all the injuries unacknowledged, the emotions suppressed; the severed childhood no longer accessible to me.

If the homunculus was a testament, then I was a tomb-keeper, sealing him away in the depths of my psyche. 

He now sat in an interior driver’s seat, turning wheels and pulling levers, operating largely unobstructed and unchallenged.

The result was the complex of behaviors and compulsions I would later call Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder. 

All the fear and rage I’d denied my child from feeling had gone unvented. The absence of an eruption had led me to believe that I was fine.

But all that internal pressure still sought release, forcing its way to the surface, oozing and hardening into blackened fields of frustration and cynicism.

While physically I had matured, emotionally I remained stuck, blind to the resulting attrition of my mental health.

For me to reverse this decline, something would first need to shake me back to full wakefulness. Turned out that something was a car crash.


Confessions of a Control Freak continues with Part 12: “A secondary gain”.

Confessions of a Control Freak – Part 12: A Secondary Gain

Essy Knopf Confessions of a Control Freak
Reading time: 6 minutes

Confessions of a Control Freak is a memoir blog series exploring the impact of Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder, its origins, and the rocky path to recovery. Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of all featured individuals. Subscribe to receive all future posts. More about OCPD here.


I

Two years after moving to Los Angeles, I found myself racing as ever from one contrived priority to another.

My latest ambition was to break into TV screenwriting, and to this end, I had started taking classes at UCLA. 

My tendency to try to squeeze every drop of productivity out of my day usually meant I labored away at my laptop right up until the very last minute. 

As getting to class already involved crossing the city, this usually meant a mad dash through peak hour traffic.

One night, however, I found myself stuck in near gridlock conditions.

At my departure, Google Maps had advised me I would be arriving 10 minutes early, but now the app was estimating I would be arriving 20 minutes late.

One of my greatest pet peeves was tardy people, closely followed by those who failed to follow rules. Now it looked like I was going to become both the former and latter.

My gut clutched at this realization. Just what would the others think of me, when this former paragon of timely attendance snuck into class 10 minutes after roll call? 

More to the point, what would I think? Arriving even a few minutes late meant breaking one of my own cardinal rules.

To become like many of my peers, washing in often 15 minutes or more after class had started, just wouldn’t do. 

But the only thing in my power to do at this point was to ensure I didn’t add insult to injury, by eating my dinner during class.

It was a habit I saw many class members indulging, in flagrant violation of the reminder on the whiteboard reminding attendees that food wasn’t permitted in the room. 

So intent was I myself on upholding this rule that I had taken to eating my own meals on the way to class instead.

Stuck as I was in traffic, I figured now was as good a time as any to eat. Transferring the microwaved Pyrex container resting on the front passenger seat to my lap, I cracked the moisture-beaded lid. 

With my eyes on the road and one hand on the steering wheel, I began shoveling spiral spaghetti into my mouth.

The lights changed, and I eased my foot off the brake, allowing the car to roll a hundred of feet or so to the next set of lights.

As I drew close to the next car up in our line, I eased my foot onto the brake to slow my progress. 

But rather than stopping, I felt the car continue to crawl forward until my bumper love-tapped the fender of the car in front of me.

It was the slightest of contacts, but enough to send a small shock through my chair.

Cursing, I put the Pyrex container on the floor and climbed out to inspect the damage. At first glance, all I could see was a single dark streak on the other car’s bumper.

A man in nurse’s scrubs emerged from the other car, scanning the bumper before eventually pointing out a peppercorn-sized hole.

It was nothing really, but I apologized all the same and provided the fellow with my insurance details.

But by the following day, Scrubs had lawyered up and was demanding that I detail the limits of my insurance. 

Figuring there was nothing to be gained by withholding this information, I complied. Then to my astonishment, my insurer informed me that the driver was claiming not only damages but injury to both himself and his passenger.

When pressed, my insurer advised that neither had any evidence to show for it, beyond a general doctor’s note claiming “soft tissue damage”—a condition I was almost certain neither of them had.

Essy Knopf Confessions of a Control Freak
By Venice canals, in Los Angeles.

II

By this point, wouldn’t have been surprised if Scrubs had claimed injury to his elderly parents twenty miles away. 

Considering I’d scarcely made contact with the other car, the whole business reeked of good ol’ fashion fraud.

Yet rather than challenging the claim, my insurance company ultimately capitulated, issuing a payout in excess of $10,000. This had the effect of causing my premiums to practically triple overnight.

Of course, this whole incident might have been avoided had I not been in a rush in the first place. 

Sure, I could have left home earlier. And I could have also set aside time beforehand to eat, rather than wolfing down my meal when I was supposed to be minding the road.

Then there was the fact that just a few months earlier, a mechanic had warned me that my brake pads were overdue for a change.

Having just splashed out on the UCLA screenwriting course, however, I hadn’t had the money to spare.


III

At the root of this incident was anxiety, a wellspring that drew its waters from a bedrock of alienated emotions.

Growing up, I had often felt like there wasn’t a space in which I could express my feelings and have them validated. So over time, I had learned to swallow them. 

This had left me emotionally crippled; an automaton functioning at partial capacity, subject to the inflexible routines with which I had programmed myself.

My life was governed less by my heart than by pure intellect, and as a result, it was a life void of true wisdom.

As much as I would reassure myself that my responses were rational and my plans error-proof, they lacked true insight and often landed me in just the kinds of difficult situations that I now found myself in.

Planning to leave at the last minute had been in the name of maximizing productivity. Yet it had also meant ignoring my own bodily needs and subjecting myself to undue stress.

Spending all the spare money I had on advancing my screenwriting skills had made sense strategically. It had contributed to the failure of my brake pads. 

When I considered what this had cost me—hundreds in premiums, along with a month of fearful anticipation as I awaited the verdict from my insurance provider—it became apparent that maybe my calculus was askew.

Always trying to “maximize” values, bartering for the best, and fighting for the most optimal outcome, had only been possible so long as I lived under constant austerity measures.

In my imagination, these austerities were guarding me against difficulties, disappointments, and failures. And yet more often than not, they ended up being a leading cause of these experiences. 

If it had not been entirely clear to me before, it was more than apparent now: unless I challenged my OCPD, I would continue to go through life with one hand tied behind my back. 


IV

Letting go of my obsessive-compulsive ways however was no easy task, largely because I was still benefiting from it.

These were the marginal benefits that come with any addiction: the kind of gratification one gets from scratching a persistent itch.

And if work was my drug, I was most certainly an addict. When my access to work was threatened, I fretted. And when it was cut off, I became jittery.

Yet for all the misery it had caused me, I had kept my mouth practically glued to the drip-feed supply. 

My reasons for sticking with it can be explained by a simple principle addiction scholars refer to as “secondary gains”. 

During the hardest, unhappiest times of my life, my OCPD served as an invaluable crutch. But what started as a crutch had eventually morphed into an iron lung, from which escape now seemed impossible.

By pursuing a life as a hyperproductive overachiever, I had been able to lay my hold, if only briefly, upon the mantle of success and perceived superiority.

Knocking out goals, working my way through priority lists, and being thrifty—these things not only felt good, but they also kept the deeper fears at bay.

But so long as I was sprinting, I could not savor. So long as I was warring for control, I was unable to find peace of mind. 

When in the grips of OCPD the world was rendered exclusively through black and white; a chiaroscuro through which I marched with both my ears stopped and my eyes closed.

Essy Knopf Confessions of a Control Freak
Enjoying an ice cream during a trip to IKEA.

V

Part of what had delayed any exploratory work around the OCPD effort was the threat it posed to the illusion of invulnerability. 

Namely, the belief that my logic was faultless, and that I could therefore never be wrong.

It was an illusion others struggled to pierce, but one in which I contradictorily failed me when I needed it most.

After working on a project for months, if not years, the pendulum would begin to swing from head-held-high to flatlining pride.

My physical and mental health depleted, I would find myself overtaken by illness, spells of suicidal ideation, and bingeing behaviors.

When my therapist had first suggested a diagnosis of OCPD, I hadn’t been ready to hear her. 

But a full year later, after the crash, I found my attitude changed. No longer was I willing to live alternatively as a pointed finger and clenched fist.


Confessions of a Control Freak continues with Part 13: “A maker of good habits”.

Confessions of a Control Freak – Part 13: A Changer of Habits

Essy Knopf Confessions of a Control Freak
Reading time: 7 minutes

Confessions of a Control Freak is a memoir blog series exploring the impact of Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder, its origins, and the rocky path to recovery. Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of all featured individuals. Subscribe to receive all future posts. More about OCPD here.


I

“What about this?” my mother asked, reaching into a shopping bag and producing a beige long-sleeved V-neck.

The shirt was one of many bargain bin purchases my mother regularly made. 

“I’m not sure it’s really my style,” I said, unfolding the garment and holding it out for inspection.

“You can just wear it around the house then,” my mom said.

I caught the pleading note in her voice and felt a pang of inexplicable sadness. 

“Okay, fine,” I said. “Thank you.”

Eying the shirt, I realized though that I was now obliged to hang it in my closet as if in preparation for later use, though I knew right now that this would never come to be. 

But throwing out, donating, or regifting the shirt just felt wrong. I knew if my mother were to ever find out, my mom would view it as an act of rejection.

My mother’s gift was just one of the countless others she made to my adult self over fifteen years. 

Like her gourmet dinners at home or the frozen meals she sent in the mail in an overnight postage bag, these were her way of expressing her enduring devotion.

The food was always gratefully received, but the clothes? These almost always had been discounted for a reason. Either they were unfashionable or had an unconventional cut. In many cases, they were at least two sizes too big for me.

When I tried to explain to my mother why I was refusing the gift, she would often try to suggest some other use for them. 

And wanting not to hurt her feelings, I would defer.


II

The frugality that motivated my mother’s purchases spoke to a fear that she had harbored much of her life.

And it was only in my 30s that I learned the source of the fear. Mom had grown up in a household marred by constant financial anxiety and marital tension. 

With time and trust, I was able to coax from my mom brief accounts of her disappointment and anger towards my grandparents.

What was clear to me was that when she spoke of not ever feeling truly understood, what she meant was that there had been a deficit of attunement between parent and child.

But try as I did to connect the dots for my mom between past griefs and present neurosis, time and time again, I would run up against a wall of resistance.

Decades of carrying this story had led to resignation. Revisiting mom’s relationship with her own parents did not, according to my mother, did not equal revelation. 

Instead, she received my discussions about the dynamic between herself and her own parents as an extended criticism of her own parenting.

To my mom, I was a relentless excavator of grievances. My dredging of the murky waters of our past could only be motivated by one desire: to find evidence of her own failings. 

To me, I was merely trying to understand the geological forces that had sundered us from each other.

Essy Knopf Confessions of a Control Freak
Just below me is the iconic Hollywood sign in Los Angeles.

III

Generations of families are linked by a causal chain of genetics, behavioral patterns, and shared circumstances.

My Iranian grandmother had survived famine, and her response had been to hunker down in anticipation of catastrophes still to come.

To prevent impoverishment and starvation, she had scrimped, saved, and stored food in bulk.

Yet in living in readiness for a worst-case scenario future, she’d never been able to truly enjoy the present.

In one example of this related to me by mom, my grandmother had insisted her husband buy two washing machines as future wedding gifts for her daughters.

These had remained in their boxes, untouched, for years, and after moving abroad to Australia neither of her daughters had been able to benefit from them.

The most astonishing part of the story was the fact my grandmother had complained bitterly when her husband hadn’t then purchased a third washing machine for their own use.

Looking upon my mother’s only fully stocked walk-in pantry, the second freezer, and garage shelves with their numerous cans, containers, and jars of dry and preserved food, it was hard not to see some similarities.

But mom’s amassing of supplies didn’t end there. Walking into my mother’s dining room, I would discover she had amassed a sizable collection of home and kitchenware.

Trips to the store often resulted in my mother returning with various discounted items: multiple cutlery and tea sets, an assortment of towels and tea towels, and entire collections of kitchenware.

What I saw as mindless hoarding, however, had merely been a survival instinct to which I too had found myself succumbing.


IV

Where my mother collected objects, I curated to-do lists.

These lists represented an inability to take satisfaction in my existing accomplishments or to find solace in the status quo.

There was always, it seemed, one more short film to edit, novel or blog post to write, or topic to research.

Never one to rest on my laurels, I made sure to fill any free time I had leftover with still more activities oriented toward personal and professional self-improvement, such as consuming podcasts, books, and courses.

When I considered the considerable volume of these to-do lists—and there were many—I eventually had to acknowledge that I could not have possibly completed all of them within my lifetime. And yet despite this knowledge, the lists continued to grow. 

By amassing tasks, I was ensuring I always had something to do, thereby sustaining a state of anxious preoccupation. 

The act of collecting in itself was an attempt to reassure myself I had taken every necessary step possible to ensure my future success. 

That success, I believed, would help avert the old feared descent into poverty and obscurity that surely awaited.

Essy Knopf Confessions of a Control Freak
On one of my favorite hikes near Santa Clarita.

IV

Some months after making the connection between my mother’s fears and my own, I decided it was time I broached the matter during one of our weekly phone conversations.

I did this, of course, with all the delicacy becoming of a human bulldozer.

“Do you think maybe you might be hoarding?” I asked.

“I am not hoarding,” my mother replied. “I’m keeping these things for you kids, for whenever you have homes of your own.”

The logic was there, and yet it was not impeccable. The increasingly cluttered dining room by this point had more than enough goods to furnish several homes.

Not that either my siblings or I were anywhere close to buying a home.

Entering into my third decade, I had few savings, no spouse, and no semblance of stability. 

Over the past few years, I had moved homes and changed careers with an almost clockwork regularity.

The prospect of me ever owning anything more than a spare change of underpants was, at this point, laughable.

Of course, in justifying her scrupulous collecting for the future, what my mother did not realize was that this was an inheritance from her own mother.

Yet the crisis that had given that habit birth was more than a half-century old. It was no little more than a ritual, designed to preempt and appease the unpredictable whims of fate. 

When, at last, my mother gave in to my appeals and started donating her excess items to charity, I knew I no longer had any excuse.

My time to figuratively clear the house had at last come.


V

Many of my OCPD traits could—in moderation—be considered advantageous.

Being a goal-getter who is great at managing time and money is, in most people’s estimation, an invaluable quality. 

Taken to excess, these qualities become detrimental. Saving for the future devolves into miserliness, self-discipline teeters towards self-deprivation, and perfectionism corrodes one’s sanity.

Often underpinning OCPD behaviors is a superb ability to delay gratification—a skill that without a doubt is key to the success of human endeavors. 

Keep at the delaying, however, and you’re to experience a dissatisfied, if not joyless, existence.

And yet these behaviors were so deeply embedded in my psyche, that I could not imagine surrendering them, let alone renouncing my identity as a proud eater-of-poison.

If I could not escape OCPD, maybe the best alternative then was finding a middle ground. 

For this to be possible, I would have to reckon with the entombed homunculi; to unify thoughts with alienated emotions.

For as long as I could remember, I had resisted opening up about my feelings, believing—often with reason—that they would not be received in an atmosphere of warmth and kindness.

But with the help of an affirming therapist, surrendering the shield of rigid protections behind which I’d long hidden was suddenly possible.

No longer did I need to sort everything I experienced according to a good-or-bad dichotomy, or hold myself—and others—to impossibly high standards.

This change was further facilitated by my decision to carve out a meditation practice. Through mindfulness, I learned to observe, rather than be subsumed by, the incessant chattering of the “monkey mind”. 

Essy Knopf Confessions of a Control Freak
If you’re a fan of street art, Los Angeles has got you covered!

VI

Over the course of a few years, I went from not acknowledging my emotions to being present with them.

Rather than viewing them as universally destructive, I began to see their value as a means of catharsis and communication.

Expressions of feeling need not be fraught with shame but regarded instead as an opportunity to forge new understandings of both myself and others.

In moments of distress, I stopped resorting to denial and dissociation, but instead listened to the feelings that arose, and offered myself the self-compassion I’d long lacked.

When my mind and body cried out for rest, I obliged, taking breaks, listening to guided audio meditations, stepping outside for a walk, and setting aside for fun activities and friends. 

Treating self-care as a daily practice rather than a rare and reluctant indulgence allowed me to offer comfort and create serenity where it was otherwise lacking. 

In doing so, I had created a space in which I could become more than just a certainty addict. 

But my path to accepting ambiguity was by no means straight, but rather, a journey of a thousand stumbling steps; of gains made and sometimes lost; of backsliding and self-sabotage.

One day, I might forget to take breaks and miss a meditation session. In the absence of self-care, my anxiety would creep back up, and I would act once more like a man possessed. 

While shaking off the OCPD demon again might take hours, if not days, poise no longer seemed unattainable. 

Obsessions and compulsions might remain, but they were no longer an inextricable part of my personhood.

My OCPD was not so much exorcized, as removed from a position of equal footing.

Thus banished, I could now see him not as a crippling curse, but as the tiny black dot of yin in the white expanse of my yang; the necessary part of a greater good.

Together, he and I had cut our way through the thorny thickets of adversity. Now, with those thickets far behind us, a single ritual remained. 

This ritual involved a speaking of the vital words; words that would formalize our severance: “Thank you, and goodbye.”


This concludes Confessions of a Control Freak. If you enjoyed this memoir series, please check out my previous series, Anxious Seeks Canine.

Anxious Seeks Canine – Part 1: ‘I am sending you’

Essy Knopf anxious seeks canine
Reading time: 9 minutes

This is a story about how I almost died. Almost. Well not exactly. But I COULD have died. I could die anytime, as a matter of fact. Is that a lump I feel in my armpit?”

Anxious Seeks Canine is a memoir blog series about a gay man living with Asperger’s, mental illness, and the relationships that may very well be fueling it. Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of all featured individuals. Except for the dog. Here’s part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, and 18. Subscribe for more posts.


I

“I think we have good energy.” I stared at Derrick, trying not to laugh. 

“You realize horses cost a lot of money, right?”  

“A few thousand dollars, at most,” Derrick replied.

“Really,” I said. “And where would you keep it?” Our tiny apartment was hardly big enough for two people and a dog as it was.

“At the stables,” Derrick said. “See, I think it would be a great investment. I could rent it out to other riders. Before long the costs would cover themselves. I’d even be able to turn a profit.”

I was on the verge of disputing the claim when the pointlessness of it all struck me.

Derrick was mercurial when it came to life decisions. This I figured was him trying to persuade himself as much as me. 

And sure enough, when Derrick returned from his riding lessons a week later, he was under a cloud.

“Bitch,” he muttered. I gave him a look. “The trainer,” Derrick added. “She quoted $12,000 for the horse. Can you believe it? Then she had the nerve to ask for a commission.”

I knew better than to rub vinegar into my boyfriend’s wounds. But still, I had to ask the question.

“So…are you still going to buy a horse?”

“I’m not giving her a damn cent!” Derrick said, storming into his room.

Reality had dealt his modest dream a death blow. But by the next day, his mood had changed.

“Good news,” he said, bouncing through the door. “I’m going to buy a motorcycle.”

“You’re- What?” I replied.

“I sat on one today,” Derrick explained. “It was so cool. Look.” He showed me a photo.

“But you don’t even know how to ride,” I pointed out. Derrick scowled.

“I’d learn,” he said.

Still, I couldn’t muster enthusiasm for this latest obsession. Last time it had been a trip to Coachella. And the time before that, an overwater bungalow in Tahiti. Derrick was quietly treading the waters of a mid-life crisis.

I made myself a bowl of cereal. Derrick’s expression got all furtive.

“So… How’s your therapy going?”

It was a fishing expedition – I was sure of it. I tried to keep my tone neutral.

“Pretty well so far.”

“Have you told her about us?” I hesitated.

“No, not yet. See, she’s Christian,” I said. “I’m worried she’ll pass judgment. You know, about us.”

“You should really tell her,” Derrick insisted. As if doing this might somehow help crystallize our relationship.

Right now, Dr. Kukosian was impartial. Trying to keep your private life private while stretched out on a therapist’s couch might sound like a losing battle, but the last thing I wanted to do was incite her prejudices. 

Defending one’s “lifestyle choices” was not a task I particularly looked forward to, especially when it might result in me being more or less kicked out of therapy. 

The therapist pickings were slim. Los Angeles was a city ripe with dysfunction, with not enough sympathetic ears to go around.

Though if I was being honest with myself, Dr. Kukosian’s religion was an excuse, and Derrick had good cause to be worried.

anxious seeks canine the thoughtful gay
This picture captures my initial joy and optimism during the first few weeks of my relationship with Derrick.

II

Dr. Kukosian’s office was on the ninth floor of a high-rise at the heart of Glendale. This floor, I eventually learned, had been rented to a private Christian college. The doctor’s counseling room – more of a booth, really – occupied a far corner.

Dr. Kukosian sat in an armchair, clad in a cardigan, capris, and an unfaltering smile, listening patiently as I ran through the week’s events.

Fifteen minutes into the session, I ran out of things to talk about. Dr. Kukosian’s encouraging smile loomed before me.

Her non-directive therapy style had left me with a chronic fear of silence. Broaching the subject of Derrick was no longer a choice, but a necessity. It was time to let the homo out of the bag. 

I opened by mentioning that I had a partner. Then I casually slipped in a masculine pronoun, carefully watching Dr. Kukosian’s face for a reaction. Nothing. 

“So you moved in with him after only two months of dating?” she asked. Her lack of disapproval was anticlimatic…disappointing, even.

“Well, my lease was up at my old place,” I said. “He had a spare room. The rent was cheaper. I wanted to save money.”

Here I was, trying to justify my decision, less worried about being condemned for being gay than I was for being, well, reckless.

“Seems like that happened very quickly,” Dr. Kukosian observed. 

“Anyway, it’s just temporary,” I said, hearing a criticism where there wasn’t one. Dr. Kukosian processed this with a sagely nod.

“And how are things between the two of you?”

I considered how best to respond.

“Well, he has an anxiety problem,” I began.

My therapist would have to be deaf not to hear the irony of this. I was here, after all, because my own anxiety had recently migrated to my face, leading to weeklong bouts of jaw clenching.

“Derrick’s a workaholic,” I continued. “He’s often go-go-go all day, night, and weekend. We don’t have any time together. He forgets all our couple’s appointments and blames me for not reminding him. I’ve basically become his maid and dog-minder.” 

“And how does that make you feel?” Dr. Kukosian asked, perhaps sensing my exasperation.

“Like I’m a…a fixture in his household,” I said, grappling for a metaphor. “Like a lamp or a chair. Like my needs don’t matter. The dog isn’t mine. She shouldn’t be my responsibility.”

That, however, wasn’t the worst of it. I’d known from the beginning that Derrick had anger management problems.

Early on in the relationship, he’d mocked my taste in music during a car ride. I’d mimed slapping him and an instant later his fist connected with my face. 

It had not been deliberate, but rather a knee-jerk (or should I say elbow-jerk?) reaction. Still, it had made me cry, and in an unexpected show of contrition, Derrick had pulled over and gotten down on his knees to apologize. 

A few days later, on the return drive from a visit to see his family in Sacramento, Derrick had woken from a nap to hear me telling his dog, who was misbehaving at the time, that she was “out of control”.

“Maybe you’re the one out of control!” he shouted, before turning over and promptly falling back asleep.  

At first, I was bemused. But the outbursts had continued, eroding my sense of security.

Another time, we were driving through his friend’s neighborhood while he was in the car. I made what I believed was an inoffensive observation, noting that the houses around us looked “rather squat”.

Perhaps Derrick thought I was, by extension, insulting his friend’s home, because his reaction had been to snap at me.

“Just shut up, okay?”

And when Derrick wasn’t taking his frustrations out on me, he was usually humblebragging.

As a manager at a tech startup, Derrick had crossed paths with more than a few industry luminaries. But after weeks of namedropping, I’d taken to joking about Derrick’s claims to fame.

“Elon Musk and I are totes besties,” I’d once exaggerated. “You don’t believe me? I’ve got his father’s number on my phone. Look, see? Wes Musk. We’re on great terms.”

Derrick retaliated by threatening to kick me out of his apartment. 

Derrick was in his 40s, so my expectations had admittedly been skewed towards him possessing a certain degree of maturity. Skewed, if not faulty.

Over the course of months, Derrick had gone from charm offensive to lashing out at random, until finally, I’d withdrawn into my room, taking with me all my goodwill.

Our lives from then on had been parallel, occasionally crossing but never connecting. When my attempts to bridge the divide had been ignored and even scorned, parting ways had seemed the inevitable conclusion.

“It sounds like a very stressful situation for you,” Dr. Kukosian said. “Maybe for the sake of your relationship it would be best if you just moved out?” 

Later, after the session, as I stood at the university urinal relieving myself, I noticed a poster taped to the wall.

“I am sending you,” it read. It was a quote, attributed to none other than Jesus Christ.

Sending me where, I wondered? And more importantly, why? 

I considered the Korean characters beneath the quote. Supposing this wasn’t just a mistranslation, the phrase could have once made sense, in some other time and place. It was also equally possible it never had, and never would.

All the same, I decided to take it as a sign. Jesus or no, I was going to leave Derrick.


III

The following day, Derrick asked if I would be willing to volunteer my services as a personal assistant at his startup.

The business was short-staffed, and given Derrick had helped me with picking out my first car, I figured I owed him the favor.

But shortly after I arrived, I witnessed Derrick ball out another manager in front of several other employees.

Over lunch, I hinted to Derrick that I was worried about the possible fallout.

“Perhaps it would be better next time if you just walk away?” I suggested. Derrick glowered.

“Well, maybe next time I just won’t ask for your help,” he replied.

I studied my lunch. For the better part of the morning, I had been running around doing errands on Derrick’s behalf. Was this his idea of gratitude?

That night, Derrick missed yet another couple’s dinner, returning home hours later to find me practicing yoga. Trying to look as defiant as I possibly could from my position on the floor, I announced I was moving out.

“Okay,” Derrick said. Uncertainty flickered across his face, hardened into something else entirely.

“I don’t have any hard plans yet,” I said, trying to soften the blow, “but I have started looking around.”

I braced myself. Having laid the groundwork, I figured now was as good a time as any to pull the trigger.

“I was thinking,” I began, “it might be best if we both took some time out from the relationship.” 

The subtext being forever – not that I was going to spell that out. Right now, Derrick was a powder keg I had no intention of lighting.

Derrick leaned back on his heels.

“I think that’s a good idea,” he said.

“… You do?”

“I’m pretty busy right now with work,” he said, playing it cool. “And you want more than I can give you.”

Was that a jeer I heard in his voice? If Derrick was hoping I would rise to the accusation, he was going to be sorely disappointed.

“Are you sure you’re okay with it?” I pressed.

“Fine,” Derrick insisted. His refusal to meet my eyes told me he’d suspected this was coming. 

And really, how could he have not? I’d told Derrick on multiple occasions how his behavior was driving me away. His response had been to label me “too sensitive”, or worse still, ignore me completely.

Fearing my short credit history and lack of savings would hinder me in my search for a new apartment, I’d dragged my heels. But then my mental health had taken a turn, and moving out had become a matter of survival.

Over the next week, Derrick wavered between anger and brittle formality, staying away from the apartment. I began to walk on eggshells, fearing that if I wasn’t careful, Derrick might try to evict me on the spot.

A friend heard I was looking for a place and asked if I might want to take over his lease. The studio proved tiny, but it had recently been renovated, with exposed brickwork and a kitchen sink the size of a drydock. Cute, serviceable, and – most importantly – available right now.

In less than 24 hours I’d signed the lease, packed my belongings, and booked a moving truck. 

anxious seeks canine the thoughtful gay
I suspect Derrick thought I was bluffing, that sooner or later I was going to “come to my senses”.

IV

Moving day rolled around and I received a text message from Derrick, stating in precise detail the condition in which he wanted my room left. 

“Make sure when you move out to vacuum,” he wrote. “I want you to clean all the dust off the skirting boards.”

This, from a man whose idea of cleanliness involved letting his dog defecate in the house while the Rumba was on.

All week conflict had been brewing. And soon it would explode.

At 9.30 pm, I made my final trip back to the house to collect some potted plants. While collecting the last one, I spotted movement through the open front door.

After a day’s absence, Derrick had returned home. His earlier silence over text told me he was itching for a fight. 

I leaned over the threshold and dropped the keys on the TV stand. 

“Here’s your keys!” I called, turning to leave. Derrick poked his head out of the bathroom.

“Wait a second,” he said, drying his hands and hurrying over. “I want to talk to you.”

“Really – I have to go,” I replied. My friends were waiting outside in the car, and we were long overdue for dinner.

“That’s fine,” Derrick blurted, using a word I’d come to associate with its exact opposite. Then he launched his opening salvo: “You need to stop talking shit about me.”

I stared, deadpan. Derrick forced a smirk.

“It’s actually kind of sad, the fact you need to go around talking about other people behind their backs.”

Yes, I had complained to a mutual friend about Derrick’s emotional abuse. So far as I was concerned, I could shout my story from the rooftop if I wanted to.

Suffice to say, Derrick didn’t really want an apology. He wanted a scene. But I was not going to give him one.

“Bye,” I said. And off I went, bounding down the front steps. Derrick rushed out onto the landing after me.

“Good luck with your writing career!” he screamed. “I hear it’s going really well so far!”

It was a knife twist out of some soap opera playbook. 

Giddy with the ridiculousness of it all, I launched myself into the waiting car. 

“What happened?” my friends wanted to know.

I looked back at the security gate to Derrick’s apartment complex. Any second now I expected him to burst into view, a spurned lover set on shrill revenge. The idea left me torn between laughter and mortification.

“Just drive!” I said. “Quickly!”

anxious seeks canine the thoughtful gay
My new studio apartment.

The next day I received a text message from Derrick, written in the frosty prose of a job rejection letter. I was hereby notified he would be invoicing me for all outstanding bills. Derrick also demanded I remove myself from our shared auto insurance plan. 

“Well ahead of you there, buddy,” I wanted to reply. Derrick was so out-of-touch he hadn’t even noticed when I’d cut the tie two weeks prior.

If I’m being honest, the relationship had been a slow-motion train wreck.

It was not the first, and as circumstances would soon prove, it would not be the last.


Anxious Seeks Canine continues with Part 2: ‘Too soon bro’.

Anxious Seeks Canine – Part 2: ‘Too soon bro!’

Essy Knopf anxious seeks canine
Reading time: 7 minutes

Anxious Seeks Canine is a memoir blog series about a gay man living with Asperger’s, mental illness, and the relationships that may very well be fueling it. Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of all featured individuals. Except for the dog. Here’s part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, and 18. Subscribe for more posts.


I

My tendency to plunge headlong into things often created problems that could easily have been avoided. My relationship with Derrick was just another case in point.

“It’s the anxiety,” Dr. Kukosian said at our next session. “Anxious people move too fast.”

A politer version perhaps of “fools rush in”. But was there anything I could do to fix it? 

“My patients who have overcome their anxiety continue to face this problem for the rest of their lives,” Dr. Kukosian explained. I stared at the ceiling.

“You’re saying I’m stuck with it?” She nodded slowly. 

I eyed a canvas print of an oil painting on the wall behind her. It depicted a scene of biblical rapture. What right did these apostles have, being so happy?

“So… What should I do?” I said, feeling more than a little helpless.

“Every time you feel yourself rushing into something, slow down,” Dr. Kukosian said.

Slow down? I only had one speed, and as far as I could see, the gear stick was broken. But if the Derrick experience had taught me anything, it was that I shouldn’t jump into another relationship ever again.

My new resolve lasted a total of four months.

One day, while scrubbing myself in the shower, I caught myself talking to my dead dog. By talking I mean babbling, something between doggolingo and baby speak.

“Oh Deedeesco, bwye you so kyute?” I said in a singsong voice. “I bwanna sqbuish dat. Gib cuddle?”

To the casual listener, it would have sounded like I was suffering from pathological echolalia. But it all made perfect sense to me.

Soon I was babbling while dressing and cooking dinner. I stopped strangers in the street.

“Can I pet your dog?” I’d ask, my hand already halfway to their pet’s mane.

“Oo… You iz berry sbweet, isn’t you?” I’d coo to the dog. “Oy loik dat.”

The owner would force a smile, but their body language would be practically screaming: “Could you just please get AWAY from my dog?”

Before long I was staying up nights, scanning pet adoption websites. 

Many of the ads read like personals, some adopting a pitiful, pleading tone.

“Marisol is a sweet, affectionate pit bull cross. Her previous owners were, unfortunately, unable to keep up with her energetic nature.”

Other ads bordered on insolent.

“Must have a large yard. No small children. Adoption possible after two weeks of successful fostering.”

Some came with detailed questionnaires or requests that struck me as a tad over-the-top.

“In the event your dog became ill, how much would you be willing to spend for treatment? $500? $1000? $3000.”

“Record a video tour of your home to give a sense of where the dog would be living.”

Most hotels didn’t even offer a video tour, and yet here was a pet adoption agency demanding a visual guarantee you could offer their homeless dog a picture perfect abode.

I winnowed my options and made a few calls. The first on my list was a scruffy, adorable-looking Chow by the name of Thompson. 

“That dog is not available for adoption,” the lady at the pound told me.

“Well, why not?”

“He has aggression issues,” she said. “He’s only available for adoption to specialist shelters.”

“So why list him at all then?” I asked, genuinely puzzled. The woman hung up on me.

Moving my way down the list, I fired off emails. My selection criteria, as it turned out, were entirely superficial, cuteness prevailing over practicality. 

One response arrived. Yes, Sandra the low-slung black mutt with tender eyes was still available. I sent an email back, expressing my interest in meeting her.

“Unfortunately you cannot meet her until after you have adopted her,” went the reply.

anxious seeks canine the thoughtful gay
If I’m being honest about myself, my tendency to plunge headlong into things almost always resulted in disaster.

Say what? The lister confessed then that Sandra actually lived in South Korea.

Only once I had forked over the adoption fee would the agency fly Sandra out to Los Angeles to begin her new life with me.

It was potentially the canine equivalent of a catfish – a dogfish – and a risk I was not willing to take.

A few days later, a shelter contacted me about a tan Jindo called Ki.

“Ki’s foster Miska has offered to come by and talk you through the ins and outs of Jindo ownership,” the email read. “Miska will bring Ki along for you to meet. Please do not touch Ki during the meeting, as Jindos are generally wary of strangers.”

I crammed information about the dog breed in preparation for the meeting.

There were a few warning signs. Jindos for example were wary of strangers. But as had been the case with Derrick, I chose to focus only on the positives.

Wow! Jindos were a breed known for their bravery and their loyalty towards a single person – traits largely absent in the people I dated. What was not to like?

That afternoon Miska arrived with Ki in tow. 

“First thing you should know,” Miska began, sitting on the edge of my desk, “is Jindos kill.”

“Er,” I blurted.

“They have a high prey drive,” Miska explained. “Ki kills something about once a week.” 

“How-” I began, and stopped.

“Just last week we were walking and he suddenly pulled free,” Miska went on, oblivious of the effect her words were having. “Next thing, I see him tossing a rat into the air.” She mimed, laughing in what I hoped was chagrin. “Then he broke its back.”

My eyes went to the dog perched on the windowsill, staring intently at something I couldn’t see. Prey.

“He’s killed pigeons before, and a few stray cats,” Miska added. My eyes returned to her.

“How do you know they were stray?”

“They didn’t have collars,” Miska said, as Ki came over to study me. I dry-swallowed.

“Otherwise Ki is just lovely,” Miska said, as if this would negate everything that had come before. “He’s so protective. As a woman I can walk him anywhere at night.” She stared down at her foster pet. “I’m going to really miss him.”

“I bet,” I said dubiously. Doubts piled on. “So the shelter told me Ki would need more than an hour of walking every day?”

“At least,” Miska said.

“But Ki wouldn’t like it if my friends touched her, right?”

“Definitely not,” she said. “Sometimes if I touch her while she’s lying down, she growls at me.”

And there it was: the soft hiss of escaping air. The balloon of my Jindo aspirations had been pricked and was rapidly deflating. 

Maybe Miska was trying to be funny. Maybe she’d overstated her case. But truth be told, any murderous tendencies were for me an immediate dealbreaker.

My reservations expressed, I thanked Miska for her time and saw her and Ki out.

anxious seeks canine the thoughtful gay
The dog I would ultimately adopt would prove to be a husky-corgi called Cash. 

II

Days later, I got a callback for an ivory-haired husky-corgi called Cash. 

There had been a lot of interest in Cash, the adoption agent informed me. Given how cute he was, it was any surprise he was such a hot ticket. But, the agent told me, I was still welcome to come by and meet him tomorrow.

Nursing the beginnings of a cold, I drove to the adoption center in Eastside Los Angeles. As I walked through the door, I spotted Cash sitting beneath a chair, a red bandana twined about his neck.

He peered up at me, bushy tail wagging, and I was smitten. To hell with all the other contenders – this dog was going to be mine.

I sat down beside his current owner Anja, a silver-haired woman with a voice as soft and sweet as cotton candy. As Anja gently patted Cash, she explained she’d only recently adopted him, but that he hadn’t been the right fit for her household.

“He kept jumping all over my other dog, who’s pretty old,” she said. “Once he scratched her in the eye. I had to take her to the vet for treatment.”

The excitable fur ball between her knees strained to the end of his lead, sniffing the gap beneath a door.

anxious seeks canine the thoughtful gay
My first glimpse of Cash. I was smitten.

I made kissing noises to get Cash’s attention and he trotted over to lick my hand. Next thing I was squishing my face into his. This was my attempt at affection – and probably the textbook definition of the worst way to introduce yourself to a dog.

Cash gave a Husky growl of protest.

“I’ve never heard him make that noise before,” Anja said, fascinated.

The adoption agent came over to ask how things were going.

“I want him to adopt Cash,” Anja said. “Can he take him today?” 

The face squishing trick, it seemed, had worked. Anja had sensed our special, instantaneous bond; had recognized that there would be no greater owner than I.

The agent frowned.

“There are still a few families who would like to meet Cash first,” she said. Anja insisted. A gentle tug of war ensued, until, finally, the agent caved.

An hour later I strolled out of the agency, Cash’s leash in one hand and a box of dog supplies in the other. 

anxious seeks canine the thoughtful gay
Cash following his arrival at my apartment.

III

Getting my newly adopted child into the car proved something of an ordeal. The instant Cash realized what was happening, he flailed, bracing his paws against the frame of the door, like a cartoon character resisting a lifetime of imprisonment.

It took two of us to get him inside. Cash immediately settled on the floor, unmoving and unresponsive.

I searched for “dog relaxation music” on YouTube then connected my phone to the car’s audio system. Soft, languorous synths oozed from the speakers.

These were the kind of sounds you’d expect to hear in a crystal shop…and probably the closest thing to musical waterboarding. Whether Cash enjoyed it, I couldn’t tell, huddled as he was beneath my chair.

When we got home, I carried my new pet over to the bath and ran some warm water, rubbing strawberry-scented shampoo into his fur. 

Cash struggled with a desperation born of certain hydrophobia. I drew the shower curtain to prevent him from leaping out, and when that didn’t work, blocked the path of escape with my body.

Afterwards I dried him and he sat, staring at me with doleful eyes as I ran a brush through his tangles. The adoption was beginning to hit home.

But so was my cold. My throat in the last few hours had grown raw, and my nose was watering.

anxious seeks canine the thoughtful gay
Cash lost about half his body weight after I brushed him. He had that much hair.

Binning a fist-sized wad of hair, I flung the brush away and sat, exhausted, on my bed. An uncomfortable pressure built inside my sinuses, giving way to pain.

“Cash?” Cash wandered over. I sat him on the edge of the bed, buried my face in his fur, and proceeded to cry.

Cash was having none of it. His eyes bulged. “Too soon bro!” they seemed to say.

He leapt down, vanishing into the kitchen. 

I lay back, trying to repress a sneeze and failing. Lying on my back, with my face parallel with the ceiling, this had the unfortunate effect of simulating rain.

There came a noise, like someone trying to squeeze ketchup from a bottle, and levered myself up. That was when I spotted Cash squatting, in preparation to defecate.

“No, Cash! No!” 

Diarrhea spattered the tiles. Completing the motion, Cash stepped backwards, directly into the puddle.

“Cash stop- No! STOP STOP STOP STOP!”

At the sound of his name, Cash trotted back over to the bed, leaving a trail of muddy pawprints.

His pale, arctic-fox face peered up at me. Wary, expectant. My tear-stained face stared back.

Here we were: two sick, miserable beings in need of love and comfort. It was, if anything, a promising beginning.


Anxious Seeks Canine continues with Part 3: ‘You’re weird’.

Anxious Seeks Canine – Part 3: ‘You’re weird’

Essy Knopf anxious seeks canine
Reading time: 6 minutes

Anxious Seeks Canine is a memoir blog series about a gay man living with Asperger’s, mental illness, and the relationships that may very well be fueling it. Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of all featured individuals. Except for the dog. Here’s part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, and 18. Subscribe for more posts.


I

“Why do you want to date me?” The question hung in the air for a few awkward seconds. Derrick scrambled to find an answer.

“… Because I like you,” he said, his face devoid of emotion.

“And why do you like me?” I was like the four-year-old who’d just discovered the word “why”. Once I started, I absolutely refused to stop.

“You’re weird,” Derrick replied. “I like that.” As good a reason as any to be with someone, I suppose?

What Derrick had failed to articulate, however, was that I was there – and that was enough.

Whether we were actually compatible was a question to which Derrick was not interested in devoting his attention. And I accepted this. Broken, complicated ol’ me. Probably didn’t deserve any better.

You see, when I met Derrick, I was recovering from the worst illness of my life. Since my teen years, I had struggled with an undiagnosed gut disorder. 

For a decade, I had believed my symptoms – gas, bloating, constipation, diarrhea, eczema, fatigue, severe mood swings – to be the result of gluten intolerance. After removing gluten from my diet, these symptoms improved but didn’t resolve completely. 

Gradually I removed other possible offenders like dairy, with varying degrees of success.

After years of on-and-off illness, I made an appointment at a leading allergy clinic. Every single test came up negative. 

At one specialist’s suggestion, I adopted a diet eliminating naturally-occurring food chemicals: salicylates, aminos, and glutamates, which can be found in anything from fruits, to cheese, chocolate, and sauces.

While these chemicals can cause reactions in some people, they didn’t appear to be a source of bother to me. Next I trialed going off animal products altogether…only for the symptoms to intensify. 

A large red rash appeared on my back, and neither anti-fungal or cortisone creams could persuade it to go away. My gut became permanently distended, prone to swelling every time I ate.

With my health in shambles, I had no choice but to cut back completely on dating.


II

WebMD told me I was probably suffering from a condition called irritable bowel syndrome (IBS).

IBS was a somatic condition linked to anxiety and depression, and given my predisposition to the latter, this made me an ideal candidate. Notwithstanding the fact that feeling like I was in the third trimester of pregnancy wasn’t depressing in its own right…

A doctor confirmed the diagnosis and suggested I undergo a test for a secondary condition called small intestinal bacterial overgrowth (SIBO).

The results confirmed that I had indeed had well and truly become a human incubator for single-celled organisms. At last, I had an explanation for my symptoms.

Where IBS could be treated with ongoing dietary restrictions, SIBO required antibiotics. A couple of weeks of treatment reduced my gut to its normal size, only for new symptoms to emerge: chronic fatigue, followed by dizzy spells.

After petitioning my doctor for help and receiving a handful of taciturn emails, I flew to Australia to stay with my folks while trying to figure out what the hell was happening.

A helpful country town doctor put me through a battery of new tests. Receiving the results was like opening a grab bag, only to find a cluster bomb.

IBS and SIBO had left my gut ravaged, and in their wake some kind of parasite had set up shop, requiring yet another course of antibiotics.

On top of this, I was suffering from a Vitamin D deficiency, on account of all the sunlight I was not getting from lying in my sickbed.

But the kicker was that the cause of my chronic fatigue was something altogether unrelated: infectious mononucleosis – the so-called “kissing disease”.

Turns out I hadn’t been wrong to stop dating, only that I probably should’ve done it sooner. In my ailing condition, I had sought comfort in the wrong person, and he had given me a case of mono. It had been a teen rite of passage, a decade too late.

I swung very suddenly from a state of chronic fatigue to one of chronic embarrassment.

anxious seeks canine the thoughtful gay
The mono let me bedridden for weeks on end.

III

Still only partially recovered from my illness, I returned to Los Angeles. To say the experience had left a dent in my spirit was something of an understatement. 

Look people – I almost died. Almost. Well not exactly. But I COULD have died. I could die anytime, as a matter of fact. Is that a lump I feel in my armpit? 

Being so sick had only heightened my existing anxiety, leaving me overwhelmed. It might’ve helped if I’d had friends or family around to care for me in LA, but I was a newcomer to the city.

Any surprise then that I warmed so quickly to Derrick. From the very beginning, he lavished attention on me, taking me out to dinner at least twice a week. 

He was solicitous about my health, swearing I could always count on him for help. It was the kind of care I’d secretly longed for.

Other people fantasize about filthy rich dreamboats, but not I. What I wanted was a nurturing parental figure who doubled as a part-time chef. Realistic, I know. 

But Derrick couldn’t have been any less equipped to provide that, given he himself wanted to be parented. By the three-month mark, suspicion had set in.

Derrick had a mantra he liked to repeat, usually every day, sometimes at three-minute intervals: “I’m tired”. I’m not entirely sure what he wanted to accomplish by telling me this.

Around this time, Derrick also shifted from charm offensive to preoccupied and avoidant. We went from eating out every second night to not eating together at all.

While I could make do without bribery by takeout, a complete lack of companionship was pushing it.

At first, I tried sympathy. When Derick continued to complain about being tired however, I changed tactics. I bought a shirt with the phrase printed on it and gifted it to him, “so he wouldn’t have to keep telling me”.

Derrick was so offended he threw the shirt into the bottom of his closet. There it remained, until I, tiring of my boyfriend’s tiredness, dug it out and wore it myself.

They say there are five stages of grief. When I broke up with Derrick, I discovered a sixth: absurdity.

In the week after, I’d broached the subject, and Derrick had airily declared he was “done with this relationship”. “This relationship” being the one from which he’d quickly become absent anyway.

With that, he had stalked from the room, only to reappear moments later to ask if I would mind his dog over the weekend. When pressed for an explanation, he said he was going away on a road trip to Vegas – and I was not invited.

anxious seeks canine the thoughtful gay
Anxiety had a way of keeping me stuck in situations that were ultimately detrimental to my wellbeing. This is me during a research trip to Turkey, for one in a string of projects I was juggling at the time.

IV

To his credit, Derrick made a few tangential attempts to ingratiate himself after the breakup. Once, he dangled the possibility of ex-sex. Another occasion, he coyly asked if he could wear my hat…because he “liked it”. 

Once I even caught him spritzing himself with my cologne, as if he were trying to savor my soon-to-be lost odor. It was almost too painful to watch.

Having weathered Derrick’s outbursts, forgiven his shortcomings, and soothed his insecurities, I’d been forced to overlook my own needs, until at last my reserves of empathy had finally run dry. 

Soon I began drawing lines in the hardwood. When I caught Derrick trying to smuggle yet another bland mid-century credenza into our apartment, I responded simply with: “No”. 

Derrick hadn’t allowed me to bring my own furniture into his home, telling in me in uncertain terms that it looked “cheap”. To diss my taste in furniture was one thing, but furnishing his apartment without my input? Unforgivable.

When Derrick insisted on keeping his latest acquisition, I wrapped a clawhammer in newspaper and placed it atop the credenza.

I’m not entirely sure if I’d “nailed” the Godfather reference, but the next day, the credenza was gone. Still, the little battles waged on.

Derrick had a habit of burning California white sage in the house in the place of air freshener. The smell had a rancid quality which he seemed to favor over that of his dog’s various messes. 

It was an odor that happened to leave me with blinding headaches, such that I was forced to keep the door to my room closed. During the Vegas trip, I started throwing out every bundle of the stuff I could find.

The day before Derrick returned, while doing his laundry for what felt like the fiftieth time, two twenty dollar notes fell out of Derrick’s jeans pocket. I didn’t hesitate, pocketing it as compensation for all the thankless janitorial duties that had been fobbed onto me. 

This moment turned out to be the last high point in our steadily declining relationship.

Did I linger to savor it? No. What I did instead was divide our Q-tip supply into two neat piles, stuff my share into a zip-lock, and departed his life as fast as humanly possible.


Anxious Seeks Canine continues with Part 4: ‘See cash? Like this’.

Anxious Seeks Canine – Part 4: ‘See Cash? Like this’

Essy Knopf anxious seeks canine
Reading time: 7 minutes

Anxious Seeks Canine is a memoir blog series about a gay man living with Asperger’s, mental illness, and the relationships that may very well be fueling it. Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of all featured individuals. Except for the dog. Here’s part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, and 18. Subscribe for more posts.


I

With Derrick gone, I fumbled towards the appearance of equilibrium. 

My employer agreed to put me on part-time hours so I could focus on a few side projects. Superficially, conditions changed, and yet the very same thing that had first propelled me towards Derrick did not.

Not a desire to be cared for as such, but rather, the inability to look after my own wellbeing. I was still a devout workaholic, cooking up responsibility after responsibility for myself.

For weeks on end, I would work around the clock, rarely taking breaks for socializing, leisure activities, and exercise. I’d eat at my desk, and when there wasn’t even time for that, I’d skip meals entirely.

Adopting a dog was my attempt to embrace a more well-rounded, enriching life. It would, so I told myself, be opening the door to the company and peace of mind I’d long denied myself.

And there was also the fact that I did, and always had, loved dogs, so much so in fact that I often preferred their company over that of other human beings.

anxious seeks canine the thoughtful gay
Cash wasn’t just a pretty face. He represented new resolutions.

Cash arrived at my home in what I believed to be a lull in life commitments, but what was in truth a franticness of my own making.

While trying to meet multiple writing deadlines, I was also finalizing the release of my first feature documentary. Cash’s adoption added yet another stressor to the equation.

When you tell people you want to get a pet, some may try to caution you: “It’s not going to be easy.”

“Well,” I’d thought, “point me to a single thing in life that is easy.”

The absence of fine print disarms you. Yet I, ever the responsible pet owner, had vowed to be as informed as I possibly could with the help of my trusty friend, Google.

The forum posts I read warned the first few days would be rocky. A bit of tummy upset, a possibility of separation anxiety. But Google alone could not have possibly prepared me for what was to come. 

The first week, I was woken every day at 7 am to the frantic sound of nails against fabric. This was the sound of Cash trying to escape his foldable dog crate. 

The walls shook and bulged in what looked like a cartoon punch-up. Cash’s shrill machine-gun barks suggested he was enduring some heinous form of torture, rather than mere separation by canvas.

No sooner had I managed to work the zip open an inch than he was launching himself out like a fur cannonball.

The crate was meant to serve in principle as his “den” – a place of rest and familiarity. But to Cash, it was the equivalent of an iron maiden. 

To me, it was a sea wall holding back waves of diarrhea.

Cash, I had been told, was housebroken. Yet the stress of the adoption – and his recent surrender by not one, but as I later learned, three owners – had thrown all of his training out of whack.

Having a dog and being mildly OCD were two things that did not mix well. Still, if being occasionally triggered was the only cost of a cute dog’s company, it was one I was willing to pay.

But after climbing out of bed in the middle of the night and stepping into a foul-smelling puddle, I’d decided it was time to try containing the issue.

anxious seeks canine the thoughtful gay
The first few weeks were as trying for Cash as they were for me.

II

I had entered dog ownership knowing there might be complications. But I had also gone into it expecting an emotional support pet…only to find myself becoming a dog life support system.

Years prior, I’d witnessed the antics of a friend’s equally needy dog and vowed I’d never adopt an animal like that. And here I was new with a puppy who nudged me the second I stopped patting him.

My expectations may have been unrealistic, following as they did the high bar set by our household dogs.

The first, Kimi, slept beside my crib when I was a baby. The instant I awoke crying, he would go into my parent’s room and wake my mother.

On weekend picnic trips with my family to a local river, I’d push Kimi into the water, cling to his tail, and wait for him to tow me to the far side like a dutiful rescue dog. Never mind he was half the size of his lookalike Lassie.

I mean, what was not to love?

As for his successor, Rumi, he had been a gentle, refined creature who could only be stirred to a state of excitement by my mother’s return from work.

Early on, I learned he could be duped by a single phrase: “Mummy’s home!” Within seconds, his gullible bottom would be waggling.

Rumi’s worst offense was howling when left alone. Compared to Cash’s daily hysteria, Rumi’s crooning was a deeply moving show of love and loyalty.

anxious seeks canine the thoughtful gay
Kimi was tireless in his love of my family.

Notwithstanding the fact Cash was lacking the same degree of charm as my previous dogs, his “accidents” would have been forgivable had he been actually capable of going potty outside.

The closest thing to “outside” Cash had ever known it seemed was a suburban yard, with none of the distractions and threats of a street frequented by people and other pets. 

Each outing thus proved fraught. The sight of people, other animals, or babies sleeping in their strollers would often spark bouts of temporary madness.

Cash would growl at anything that moved, bark at every approaching figure, lunge at other dogs. Having never been lead-trained, he would pull me down stairs, into walls and car doors with careless abandon, leaving me with an assortment of cuts and scrapes.

When we finally did get to a grassy verge that served as a toilet for the neighborhood dogs, Cash would just stand there. Sometimes he might pace, other times he would sniff the leavings of his predecessors. But he would not, for reasons I could not fathom relieve himself.

After twenty minutes of exasperated waiting, I’d take him back up to the apartment. Before long, however, Cash would be at the door, crying to be let out. Up and down the stairs we would go, over and over again, with nary a bowel or bladder movement. 

anxious seeks canine the thoughtful gay
Rumi was Kimi’s equally adorable successor.

I wondered if I was being subjected to some kind of canine mind game. But then I would look into Cash’s gentle eyes, and my exasperation would soften into pity.


III

One day, upon returning from my seventh lap to the grassy patch, I found my own bladder was full. As I stood at the toilet relieving myself, Cash entered the bathroom, hunkered down on the bathmat, and urinated in tandem. 

Cutting myself off mid-stream, I turned and gave him a look heavy with disapproval.

Cash for his part stared up at me in what appeared to be guilt…or perhaps blame. I’d made him wait, after all, inflicting my unreasonable expectations upon him.

This? This was payback.

The stair-climbing routine began to grind on my nerves. I was facing down multiple deadlines, and to make matters worse, I was still ill.

Over the past few days, I’d coughed so hard I was pretty certain I could now see my abs. It was a first, but one I wish I had only achieved by virtue of exercise, rather than repeated attempts to lose a lung.

anxious seeks canine the thoughtful gay
Caught in the act!

The combined stress sent me into a downward spiral of dog shaming.

“Pee or do not pee!” I caught myself screaming at Cash. “There is no try!”

My wisdom, however, fell on deaf ears.

Once more, I turned to the forums for help. One post suggested I could fix Cash’s problem by collecting a sample of Cash’s urine and using it to “mark” the desired spot. 

Ever the dutiful parent, I squeezed the contents of a puppy training pad into a jar. I took Cash downstairs, dribbled the pee onto a patch of brown, stunted grass and told Cash to go potty.

Cash didn’t so much as look at me. Instead, he sniffed at a passing homeless woman, pushing a trolley laden with garbage bags at the far end of the block.

“Cash! Go potty.”

Still he ignored me. 

Growing up, I’d seen parents accompany their toddlers into toilets. The idea of guiding anyone through such a process had revolted me. Helping someone perform a basic biological function? No thank you.

But what choice was left to me now? The situation called for desperate measures.

Checking to see the coast was clear, I lowered the front of my pants and urinated. Not a full stream mind you – just a few discreet squirts.

“See Cash? Like this.”

anxious seeks canine the thoughtful gay
Cash, in one of his frisky, post-bath moods.

Cash looked at the pee puddle, then his attention returned to the homeless woman.

I had just publicly exposed myself – all for the sake of my dog. But if I was expecting gratitude, I certainly wasn’t going to get it.


IV

It was some days before Cash mastered outdoor peeing. Around this time the fount of diarrhea dried up, and now he was suffering from the exact opposite problem. 

My relief was swiftly replaced by concern. So, back to the online forums I went.

One post suggested I give Cash some pureed pumpkin to help move things along. What it mostly did was earn me some serious canine side-eye.

Cash’s symptoms were, as it turned out, psychosomatic. He was a very anxious dog, and his anxiety prevailed long after most dogs would have otherwise “settled in”. 

Losing sight of me sparked for my pet what sounded like an existential crisis, every departure and arrival greeted with a furious storm of barks. 

anxious seeks canine the thoughtful gay
As for closing the bathroom door, that was not happening – not on my dog’s watch.

A dog training website told me I should ignore Cash until he calmed down. Yet my snubs only made him double down with the protesting.

Another site suggested I desensitize Cash to all the familiar cues of my leaving. I began jingling my keys at random intervals. I’d go through the motions of putting on my clothes and shoes before sitting back down at my computer.

Each time, Cash would leap up as if he’d just heard an air raid siren. If I dared move, he would stick to me like a piece of Velcro. If I closed the door on him, he would bark incessantly. It was like having the world’s clingiest boyfriend.

One morning, tired of my dog’s bottomless need, I decided to try sneaking away. As I quietly prepared to head out for work, I paused to listen. Cash seemed to be still sound asleep in his crate. 

Finishing dressing, I crept over to the door, unlocking it. Carrying my shoes out into the hallway, I eased the door closed. 

It was two inches from the jamb when a sneeze came on. I tried to hold it in, but the effect was like trying to swallow a sneeze: all the air went out my nostrils.

Snot geysered, dribbling only my chin.

And just like that, my cover had been blown. The apartment rang with a series of high-pitched yelps. 

Scrape-scrape-scrape went Cash’s nails against the canvas as the crate bounced in place. 

Sighing, I closed the door and walked away.


Anxious Seeks Canine continues with Part 5: ‘Doesn’t like cuddles’.