It’s hard to say when my OCD started, but it was probably when I was 10, the night my aunt died suddenly of an aneurysm. Feeling confused, I found myself running my finger along the patchwork wallpaper in my bedroom — tracing the lines somehow soothed me, so I took it up obsessively. I was worried about my dad, too, and I started to sing his favourite songs. I’d walk round the block so nobody could hear me (I was secretive about my habits), and if I sang a song wrong, I’d have to do it again. When I was 11, my father, a lawyer, got cancer and passed away, and I started praying. I’d pray 100 times (a comforting number) to the Jewish prayer scroll outside my room, and I’d pray throughout the day.

Story continues here ➤