I do have a problem, but it's not that bad

Have I ever told you I have something like obsessive compulsive disorder. I've been diagnosed, but that was by a doctor who spent all of 3 minutes talking to me. So either I have it so bad that it is completely obvious in 3 minutes of conversation, or he got it wrong. I learned in nursing school that to have a diagnosis of OCD, your compulsions need to take up an hour or more per day, and I don't have that, so I'm thinking that he got it wrong, or just, not quite right.

Let me tell you 3 stories that illustrate my problem.

1. It was my junior year of high school. That was a hard year for me; my parents got divorced and my mom and I moved out of my dad's house on the day that I was scheduled to take the SAT II. I was thinking that the ward members coming over to help were mostly going to move family things: couches, pots and pans, lamps. I was frazzled and I got all the way to school and realized that I forgot my ID, which I needed to take the test. I sped back home and saw that one of the ward ladies had started boxing up MY things in MY room, probably thinking she was being helpful because I had been studying and hadn't started packing. I freaked out. Fighting back hot tears, I told her to stop packing and that I would do it. Then, in the car I started sobbing. I called my mom and in a fit of teenaged self-centeredness I asked her how DARE she let someone touch MY stuff. I felt really bad as soon as the words had left my mouth because the day was undoubtedly stressful and incredibly sad for her as well.

2. When I was 19, I went to the doctor for some problem that I don't remember what it was. The doctor, probably in an effort to be friendly (or maybe it had something to do with my problem) was asking me about my personal life. I was going through a kind of rough patch with my then-boyfriend (not Tyler), and was probably reluctant to talk about it. I dealt with my anxiety by picking at a loose string on my jeans. The medical problem was such that I had to come back a few days later, and it was that visit that the doctor told me he had been thinking about our conversation, and that he strongly felt I had OCD and told me I should go on medication. I took the prescription, but never filled it.

3. Last night. It was the first Monday in the new quarter, so it was flip the bed day. I took off the sheets, flipped the bed, and washed the pillows and mattress cover. I got busy with my day and didn't put the bed back together. After dinner, I sat down to do homework, and I could hear Tyler upstairs putting the sheets on the bed. I like him. (Note: We have a duvet on our bed. It's getting hot here, so we took the comforter out of it, and just put the cover on the bed.) When I came up to bed, I saw that the duvet cover was inside out. On the bed. Inside out on the bed. Made. I had a strong desire to take it off and fix it, but Tyler had put it on, and my keen wife senses told me that it would hurt his feelings (and discourage him from helping out in the future) if I re-did it. So I got into bed. I laid awake, knowing that the cover was on wrong. I tried to convince myself that it was silly, but I had a hard time falling asleep. When I made the bed this morning, I took it off and fixed it.

That's the kind of thing that is sort of funny later; Tyler can't figure out why it would bother me, and I can't figure out how it doesn't bother him.

In short, I realize I have a problem, but it's not that bad.