Triggered NPR coverage of Triggered: A Memoir of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder by Fletcher Wortmann. News, author interviews, critics' picks and more.
NPR logo Triggered


A Memoir of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder

by Fletcher Wortmann

Hardcover, 259 pages, St Martins Pr, List Price: $24.99 |


Buy Featured Book

A Memoir of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder
Fletcher Wortmann

Your purchase helps support NPR programming. How?

Book Summary

A personal account by a member of The Disappointments sketch-comedy group describes his experiences of growing up with OCD — discussing such topics as his pop-culture obsessions, the roles of literature and Christianity in shaping his perspectives and his visit to the OCD Institute in Massachusetts.

Read an excerpt of this book

NPR stories about Triggered

When Obsessive-Compulsive Thoughts Are 'Triggered'

  • Download
  • <iframe src="" width="100%" height="290" frameborder="0" scrolling="no" title="NPR embedded audio player">
  • Transcript

Note: Book excerpts are provided by the publisher and may contain language some find offensive.

Excerpt: Triggered

If it isn't too much trouble, I need you to look up. Do it. Now. No one's watching. Look around you. Study your surroundings. Now consider the possibility that, at any moment, the end of the world could occur. The ground cracks, the clouds spark with red lightning, hungry waters rise. The sky hums with annihilating angels. Feel free to incorporate details from your preferred apocalypse, as long as they fit the overall scenario. Imagine the final crisis of man. Let us pretend that the sky is falling.

Now I would like you to prove, with absolute certainty, that this is not true and that you are not about to be owned by God. Never mind if you are inside, or even in some kind of reinforced bunker, because for the purposes of argument the hypothetical bullet the universe has aimed at you will pierce any barrier. No rational force can protect you. You have literally moments to live, and you are wasting them reading a memoir.

Now, no one is saying that the world is definitely about to end. You could probably construct a strong argument that my impending doomsday is actually pretty unlikely. You could cite research studies, endless statistics, and I'm sure all of these would be very accurate and science-y. But you have to recognize that all of this goes only so far. You can present your evidence to me and I can ask, "How do you know that's right?" and then you can show me your citations and your annotated bibliography, but I can ask, "How do you know that's right?" I can ask this again and again, as many times as I need to. A 5 percent margin of error is all well and good but will be small comfort if you are the unlucky one in twenty around when shit gets real.

The truth is that you cannot prove anything one way or the other. Everything is possible. We live in a world not of certainty but of endless incalculable risk. The music of the spheres is chaos.

Now, before you panic, I'm going to suggest a possible resolution to this situation: The end of days will not occur until you close the covers of this book. You can postpone the apocalypse for as long as you like just by keeping the book open. The instant you shut it, however, everything will be destroyed. Again, I can't prove to you that this is the case, but considering that we aren't sure about the end of the world to begin with, I don't think this is unreasonable. I know it will be inconvenient to keep the book open, and I am sympathetic, but it's such a minor inconvenience considering what is at risk. Just keep it open, at least for a few more minutes. Then, when you get a chance, you can put it facedown on your desk and forget about it. Or you could nail it open to a plank of wood and hide it in the attic or something. It'll ruin the spine, sure, but that's a pretty minor sacrifice, considering you now hold in your hands the trigger to the extinction of all worlds.

But you tell me, "So what?" And you forget about the possibility of imminent destruction, and you go on with your day. May I congratulate you on your apparent sanity. I can continue the narrative, secure that your brain is functioning as advertised. But imagine that "so what" was not good enough. Imagine that you could not live happily without absolute certainty, and that it seemed reasonable for you to keep the book open as long as you could. In this case, certain additional preventative measures would be prudent.

Fortunately I just thought of some additional preventative measures. They won't make or break the deal, of course, but they'll help. Maybe. They shouldn't hurt, anyway. Listen: When you hit page one hundred, make sure you lick your finger before you turn the page. Actually, you'd better do that every ten pages. And when you do put the book down, make sure you shut the lights off before you leave the room — although it would probably be better if you flicked them twice first. Also, next time you're out, make sure to write down the remaining time on any parking meters you see. And you know what? I'm going to need you to count things. Like, red shoes or milk or something. Seriously, it doesn't really matter what. Just start counting shit. Like maybe you see three cars go by, just fucking one two three, like that. Just to be safe. Trust me, it'll help, maybe.

Of course none of these behaviors will definitely prevent the apocalypse, but they might protect you, and in these dire circumstances we need to do everything we can. These are inconveniences, but aren't they preferable to the end of the world?

No. Not really, unfortunately. It is possible for a human being to reach a point where incineration in divine fire would actually increase cognitive and behavioral functionality.

It does not end here. It cannot. Tell me: How do you know that you won't be killed by a falling meteor? How do you know that you shut off the toaster oven this morning? That one of the seething millions of bacteria on your hands will not kill you? That your friends don't all secretly hate you? Do you have religion? Do you have the right religion? Are you sure? Are you a pedophile, a necrophiliac, a rapist? A murderer? How can you know that these tendencies do not dwell latent inside you, waiting for the right moment to evince themselves in the most horrific manner possible? How do you know that you are not a monster? How do you know that it isn't the end of the world?

Everyone has moments when, against probability and common sense, we attempt to eradicate ordinary uncertainty using our minds. You get halfway around the block and then realize that you might have forgotten to lock the front door, so you drive back around to check it. It's near the end of the seventh inning and things aren't looking good, so you pull out your favorite baseball cap because sometimes it seems to help. You call your child's phone twice to make sure that she got to the party okay. You cross your fingers, you knock on wood, you wish on a coin or a star or a stray eyelash. Everyone does this. It's not a problem for most people.

OCD is called "the doubting disorder," at least among people inclined to give cutesy alliterative nicknames to mental illness. OCD is the pathological intolerance of risk, however minute, and the surrender to protective ritual, however unbearable. No matter how unlikely a feared consequence, if there exists even the fraction of a percent of a possibility that it could occur, the disorder is able to find purchase. It seeks out the cracks in our perception of reality, it finds the tiny darkened territories on our internal maps; and then ceaselessly, tirelessly, it sets about expanding them. These cartographic elaborations are careful and clever. You will not notice that anything has been changed until the ink starts to bleed through onto your hands, and then suddenly every inch of territory has been marked inaccessible. Everything is made unknown and unsafe. Here there be dragons.

From Triggered: A Memoir of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder by Fletcher Wortmann. Copyright 2012 by Fletcher Wortmann. Excerpted by permission of Thomas Dunne Books, an imprint of St. Martin's Press, LLC.