From the age of four to my current age of 20, it feels like obsessing has been ingrained into my DNA. Even my earliest memories are plagued by my obsessive-compulsive disorder, which has persisted throughout my life with no sign of stopping anytime soon.
Sometimes I worry I was doomed from the start because my OCD symptoms started when I was so young. One side of my family is Irish Catholic and riddled with alcoholism. The other side is somewhat of a mystery with distant family members we know almost nothing about.
Because OCD is fairly rare, I spent much of my youth wondering where it came from. It was clear to me growing up that I possibly inherited it from someone in my family.
I always felt frustrated by the lack of information I had about my mother’s side of the family. Since half of my lineage is an enigma, it was never clear whether my genetics made me think this way or if I was just an anomaly.
To relieve some of the emotional tension that unknowingness caused, I’ve learned to find my obsessive feelings reflected in the art around me. Being able to relate to characters, even a little, makes dealing with my issues in the real world a little less challenging.
The most recent and apt example of this for me is the story of Dune and the protagonist Paul Atreides. Central to Paul’s character is the conflict of being gifted a legacy he never asked for, which immediately resonated with me and my experience with my family history.
As the film’s prophecy states, Paul is destined to become a messiah to the people of Arrakis, referred to as the Fremen. His main goal is to assist the Fremen in fighting against their colonizers and deliver them to eternal paradise. However, saving the Fremen means learning he is a direct descendant of the empirical powers he is fighting against.
As Paul’s sister says in Dune: Part Two, “You are not prepared for what is to come. You’ll now learn the truth about our family and it will hurt you to the core.”
When Paul finds out the truth about his family, he becomes bitter and a selfish lover, having the sole motive of starting a holy war to murder his family responsible for the Fremen’s suffering. While not to the extreme degree of the movie, I worry my DNA is destined to make me resentful like Paul and the anxieties programmed in my brain will consume me.
Paul is a sign I don’t have to yield to my family history, because the moment he does, all the good he was meant to do goes to nothing. Sometimes I wish I had the missing pieces to my family history because there could be solace in having a holistic picture of why I think and act the way I do. That comfort dissipates when I remember what happened with Paul when he leaned into the unknown, and I would rather avoid that fate.
I know enough about my dad’s side to know that I’ve most likely inherited my disorders from them, but I’m still hyper-focused on what I don’t know. Because my mom’s side is so distant, I can’t guarantee they didn’t contribute to my mental makeup and I’m not sure I want to find out. I imagine it may be easier to live in blissful ignorance, believing that her side was filled with nothing but joy and nonchalance.
If I delved into untying the mystery of my mom’s side, I could learn that I never had a chance at being normal. I could become like Paul and lose all of the sanity I’ve been trying so desperately to stay latched on to. I could also be better off having all the answers. I’m not quite sure which I’d prefer, but I believe the anxieties surrounding the consequences of knowing may be worse than uncertainty.
It’s difficult to realize genetics can be conspirators and Paul understands that more than anyone. But I learned from Dune that it’s worth it to resist, to feel love just one more day at a time. Though your knife may chip and shatter, as Paul says, being able to walk out on the other side and not be in pieces is what matters.
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