The Garage Door

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• March 23, 2015

Time and time again, leaving for church Sunday morning (yes, I went to church every Sunday for the first 16 years of my life–does that explain a lot?), or going on any trip short or long with the whole family in the van, my Dad reminded us all to put our seat belts on (he still does this).  We’d pull out of the driveway, but before we reached the end of the block, my Dad was turning the car around.  “I don’t remember if I closed the garage door,” he said.  The kids sighed and rolled our eyes.  He always does this. Whether or not he hit the button to close the garage door was a constant uncertainty to my Father.

Out of the hundreds of times we went back to check on the garage door, I can’t remember a single time when he left it open.  It was always closed.  My Dad drove by our home, and while we all whined with our “I told you so” comments, my Dad looked at our house: the American dream, a modest house in the suburbs which he shared with a beautiful wife, and three kids who didn’t yet appreciate any of this, all on their way to Sunday Mass.

It was annoying.  Any time you’re heading to a destination, only to turn around because something was forgotten is a minor nuisance.  But when that turn around was due to a constant worry about the garage door being left open, that minor suspicion grew into a malignant unease that plagued my Father.  Then, my Mom also adopted this ludicrous habit of doubt.  Sometimes, we’d be much further than the end of the block when we had to turn around to check the garage door.  My parents are totally batshit insane, I thought to myself.  How do they even live their lives like this.  It must be awful.  

I moved out a year ago.  Last Spring, when I was new to Astoria, I would be on my way to the subway or the bus, and think, “did I lock my door?”  I fought the urge to go back.  I fought the urge to cave into my OCD paranoid delusions.  Sometimes, I failed.  It just bothered me so much.  I could not remember if I put the key in the door and turned it.  I would always give the door a little push to ensure it was locked.  But did I do it this morning?  Going back to check would mean being late, and I can’t stand being tardy.  But not checking it means it would drive me crazy, all day long.  It would be on my mind all fucking day.  More than a few times, I went back to check.  I needed to put my worried mind at ease.  It was locked.  Every time.

I didn’t put it together at first.  Not until I was back on Long Island driving with my Mom when she asked, “did we close the garage door?”  A flood of childhood memories of turning the car around to check the garage door made me let out an exasperated sigh.  Then, just a few days later, I’m walking to the subway and I stop, “did I lock my apartment door?”  As if I were the one driving the van from my youth, I could hear my younger, saner self pipe in, “really, Lori?  Really?  Are we going to do this, again?”  No, no, you’re right, me… we’re not going to do this.  I’m not going to check the garage door.  I mean, my door.

I continued about my day.  Work, then running around the city doing comedy.  Out from 8am till near midnight before returning home.  I thought about that stupid door all day.  I had a memory of locking the door, but was I remembering a prior incident of locking the door?  Fucking Hell.

“Are you okay?”  Some asks.   I get asked this a lot.  My face seems to have a look of perpetual confusion.
“Yes, just a bit tired,” which wasn’t a lie.  I’m always tired.  My lifestyle allows minimal sleep.  But that wasn’t the issue.  The fucking garage door was haunting me.  Why?  Why does this bother me so much?

“Because I have thousands of dollars of equipment in there,” my blue collar Father would say, “including all your surfboards.”

This was true.  There was a lot to lose.  Our precious surfboards.  Our garage has so many boards, it looks like a surf shop.  But I don’t think being robbed is the underlying problem here.  Because how many times do you turn to the car around to find that you closed the garage door before you stop turning the car around?  Closing it was a habit.  So much so, that you forget you do it.  Like if you take vitamins every morning.  At some point, you do it unconsciously.

When I was a kid, and my folks turned the car around to check the garage door, I knew it was closed.  I knew it was closed every time.  And they didn’t listen to me.  Now, as an adult, I get the urge to go check my door even though I know it’s locked.  I know it.  That’s not why you go back.  You go back to quell the doubting wonder that will keep you from experiencing the day because your nerves have a strong grip on your thoughts and behavior.  You justify it by saying a short trip back is worth the peace of mind.  But, is it?  Is it really healthy to continue life this way?  I resisted and refused for months to return to my apartment after I left to check the door, despite how badly I wished to double check it.  It drove me crazy.  But I forced myself not to look back.  It got easier.  Especially when I returned to my apartment, day after day, discovering my door was always locked.  See?  Lori, see?  I told you so.  I fucking told you so.  You mental patient.  And I laugh at myself.

Almost a year on my own, I return home after a long day.  I unlock my door, and I feel proud of myself for not caving into this OCD impulse, as if I’ve accomplished something.   All that worrying for nothing.  How many little things do I fret over for naught?  I can hear the sound of the garage door closing in my minds memory, mocking me.  I wonder how my brother and sister have managed not to be affected by the garage door.  I pat myself on the back for my independence, and growth as a human adult.

Then, I nestle into bed, more than ready for sleep.  And I think to myself, “did I put the chain lock on my door?”