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It's a snowy day. I'm trapped in my apartment in Manhattan—bleaching the tub, toilet and tile floor in the bathroom. I'm scrubbing like a goddamn madman until everything is sparkling white—killing all of the bacteria.

It's not just that I'm a germaphobe or a clean freak. It's just that I'm a certifiable obsessive-compulsive. And I have been for years. I'm inside, ready to move on to the next task on my list (yes, I do keep crazy long lists of chores). I've already done five loads of laundry and it's only noon, and now I'm folding underwear, socks, t-shirts, jeans and towels and making perfect piles on the bed—the same way my obsessive-compulsive father used to do when I was a kid growing up.

I make a brief list of everything that I will need to purchase to survive in my new minimalist lifestyle: seven pairs of underwear, one pair of jeans, three t-shirts, one pair of shorts, one suit, one pair of shoes, one pair of sneakers and one jacket. Oh God, I feel cleansed. I head into the bathroom and take a half-hour shower and use a whole bottle of shampoo. I also attempt to use an entire bar of soap and lather my body, but it's impossible to use the whole thing. I scrub every part of my body, rinse and then dry off. Then I get out of the shower and shave and get back in there and rinse off again.

I decide that I will organize my bookshelves. When this is finally finished, I run to the bathroom and relieve myself. I'm exhausted from all of this activity and I climb into bed in the middle of the day.

When I put my head down on the pillow, I finally escape from the demands of the obsessive-compulsive chatter in my head, and I relax...for about five minutes. Then it all comes back to haunt me and the visions start to fill my head. I'm not sure if they are actual hallucinations or just "imaginations" (as a Jungian analyst might call them), but they frighten me.

I start organizing my physical environment around me. Everything that is on my desk I imagine enclosing in plastic containers and marking with special labels. Clothing that is not put away must be stored in these same containers. Once everything in my view is in these containers, I can rest.

Unfortunately, it is not just objects but concepts, ideas and histories that need to be "filed" too. Sometimes this can take days, and I am "bed-bound" because of this huge task.

What's so frightening about my obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) is the amount of time that I waste. Time passes so quickly when I get lost in this kind of activity, and I calculate that I've wasted a total of approximately fifteen years on obsessive-compulsive tasks.

Once, my psychiatrist treated me for OCD with a medication called Anafranil, and I had some limited success with it. But I discontinued use after one month because he was more interested in treating me for my manic depression. However, sometimes I find that my OCD—if "used to my benefit"—can be productive, and I apply it to my work so that I organize my tasks and chores quite effectively. I'm quite good at taking care of details when it comes to "physical space" or cleaning, but I have serious problems when it comes down to actually getting work done. If given the choice between writing a novel in one year or cleaning three apartments a day five times a week, I would probably choose the latter.