Seven Oaks Magazine.

For each of us somehow hindered or limited by the bounds of our own health -- “differently abled” or “traumatically magical,” or whichever euphemism you prefer -- there have tended to be comic book superheroes sharing our afflictions, to whom we might look for inspiration and vicarious thrill. For those confined to wheelchairs, there was the awesome power of the X-Men’s progenitor, Professor X (immortalized onscreen by the sexy Patrick Stewart). For the visually impaired, there was Daredevil (slightly less immortal in the hands of the sexy Ben Affleck). But for those of us held back by mental illness rather than by overtly physical difficulties, comic book idols have tended to be few and far between.

To be sure, each superhero whose life is marked by the invariable bifurcation between ‘secret’ identities inevitably touches down upon the theme of the fractured self and psyche. Big deal. Tell you what, here’s a quarter; while you’re in that phone booth changing clothes, call somebody that’s easier to impress. In this day and age -- when the angry prairie populists of Tommy Douglas are voting for Stephen Harper -- who among us isn’t harbouring our own fractious contradictions? Speaking as an obsessive-compulsive, I can say that I’m in search of a far more specific list of symptoms: a tendency towards rumination and obsession; constant fear that one’s own actions or inactions will lead to great harm for others; a desire to prevent all bad things from happening, however unreasonable the measures taken; fear that one will inadvertently hurt one’s loved ones; assigning oneself responsibility for things over which one has no control.

Did anybody call for a web-slinger?

Spiderman, hero of the summer box office, is the super-powered obsessive-compulsive to a tee. Poor, poor Peter Parker -- if only he’d had a run-in with a radioactive banana instead, he might have been infused with the serotonin he’d need to lead a happy life. Instead, he pores endlessly over his uncle’s death, which he believes was caused by his own failure to confront a thief whom he had no reason (at the time) to believe would kill anyone, let alone a loved one. That overriding guilt and grief have translated into a highly ritualized, stressful and anxious life dedicated to the impossible task of preventing all harm -- just like the homemaker who checks the stove ninety times a day to ensure that her children won’t be burned in a fire, or the man who washes his hands six times an hour to keep himself from contaminating others. In fact, Spiderman’s famous “spidey-sense” -- the extrasensory ability to detect the hidden dangers in every situation -- is such a blatant OCD fantasy, I can’t grasp how it is that you of the “Only Check the Locked Door Once” crowd get so excited about it.

Sitting in the theatre viewing Spiderman 2, I watched along with hundreds of fans as Peter Parker’s eyes perked with anxiety each time an emergency vehicle’s siren could be heard in the distance. For my fellow cinema-goers, it was nothing more than an indication of Spidey’s abiding dedication to the public good. For me, it was a hauntingly familiar sight, conjuring memories of how, as a child, I had had to perform a specific, ritualized prayer every time I heard a siren; if I failed to do so, and the ambulance was bound for the home of someone I knew, then it would be my fault if they died.

So unless you’re one of the one in 40 Canadians suffering from OCD, I’m afraid you’ll never know the real Spiderman. Sorry kid, I don’t care if you’ve got Spidey bed sheets -- start laundering them compulsively, and then we’ll talk. You’re free to fawn over Spidey, and thrill to his antics, but only we can really get him.

Before they discover self-gratification (a compulsion that reaches far beyond the one in 40) many young boys spend countless hours fantasizing about their favourite superheroes, fancying themselves as sidekicks. If Spidey were real, I imagine we’d be the best of friends. We’d sit around chatting about Kirsten Dunst, tossing back anti-depressants like tic tacs, doing mindfulness meditation on the fire escape, or maybe just washing web off of our hands for hours at a time. He’d tell me about his day, and we’d laugh:

“I fought Electro at the abandoned warehouse, and he shocked me with 500 volts!”

“That’s nothing -- you should have felt the zaps I got withdrawing from Paxil.”

But of course, Spidey’s not real, and so I’ll just have to admire him from afar. But as I do, I want a little recognition for who the real fans are. It doesn’t matter if you’ve memorized every issue number and storyline; unless you did it because you had to, you don’t get Spiderman like I do. Like Professor X to paralysis or Daredevil to sightlessness, Spidey is the OCD poster-hero. The old song put it best: “Wherever there’s a hang-up, you’ll find the Spiderman.” I’ve got hang-ups, baby. I’m your friendly neighbourhood obsessive-compulsive.