You Down With OCD?
True story: I once walked around Manhattan with nine crisp, one hundred dollar bills, folded in the sign of the cross and stuffed in my bra, on the advice of a so-called psychic.
She insisted that my six-year relationship with Fred had ended because I was cursed. The only way to regain favor with the angry gods was to empty my bank account of next month’s rent and hold it close to my heart for 10 consecutive days before reporting back to her for further instructions.
At the time I knew she was full of shit, but it was such a ridiculous request I just had to stick around to see how things would pan out.
Also, I was desperate for someone to talk to. $40 and some cock & bull was a small price to pay for a pseudo-sympathetic ear.
That’s what happens when you’re afflicted with OCD—a condition I lovingly refer to Obsessive Compulsive Divination. Characterized by a chronic “need to know,” OCD’s primary symptom is self-medication in the form of excessive fortune telling.
After Fred and I broke up, I wound up in Los Angeles on a ten-day bender, hitting up every known psychic from the Valley to Venice Beach. (I also inadvertently ran into Bruce Willis at the Galleria Mall and was able to bring closure to an email dalliance we were on the verge of exploring…but that’s another story. Let’s just say it was an odd, occasionally intoxicated time in my life.)
The most common impetus for OCD is a major life crisis, one that feels like the end of the world. Rather than living through my grief one day at a time, I tried to flip to the last page, like the end of a book.
But to quote the gospel of Adventures In Babysitting, “Nobody gets out of this place without singin' the blues.”
The only way to process my pain was to work through it. Not to build a menorah made of oranges and burn the candles to their stumps at sundown, as prescribed by the NYC psychic in phase two of our curse clearing; not to cut a piece of fabric from my favorite black shirt and write upon it my darkest secrets with a black sharpie marker so she could dip it in a bowl of water and wash my sins away.
I just had to live with it.
At some point during my L.A. bender, a friend suggested I book an appointment with his acting teacher, Dee Wallace. In addition to having an acting career of her own, Dee also works as an energy healer. When I asked her to tell me my future, she said firmly but lovingly, “I’m not a psychic who answers to your questions. I teach you the tools to heal yourself.”
That day she shared her personal healing formulas, along with Abraham-Hicks’ Law of Attraction techniques and the I AM Chronicles of Saint Germaine. Meanwhile, I resisted the urge to ask about the teachings of Saint Michael, Saint Tito and Saint Marlon and Saint Jackie.
All joking aside, these doctrines started me on a spiritual journey that has become the foundation of my psychic mediumship practice today.
Thanks to Dee, the main purpose of my work is to help clients reconnect with their own inner knowing. Whenever I meet someone who’s down with OCD, I give them the tools to release the things that are no longer working in their lives and help them create all the amazing things that they’re hoping I’ll tell them are already there.
Originally published in Connect Savannah