Finding the Magic
As an avid Magic: The Gathering player and Lord of the Rings lover, I was thrilled that there was a second release of the LotR-based Magic set. I was even happier when a friend offered to help me find a cheaper box of cards to buy, especially considering price is not much of a consideration for him and he absolutely didn’t need to help me in this way.
He spread three boxes on the table, two for him and one for me. He told me to pick which one was mine, and I - as I tend to do - anthropomorphized the boxes of cards and went for the one in the back with the bent corner and the little tear in the plastic wrapping. I considered, for a moment, leaving this superstitious practice behind and going for the first one, but I decided not to.
I opened my box first, and loved seeing new, gorgeous versions of the LotR-themed cards I adored when they first came out in June. I had been hoping for a serialized card - a special card marked with a unique number to show that it’s the only one of its kind in the world - but I didn’t get one.
When my friend - who isn’t a Lord of the Rings fan, but buys large amounts of cards for every new Magic set - opened the box I snubbed for the “imperfect” box and got a serial card, he wasn’t excited, thinking the card itself was lame and he already had several serial cards before.
He immediately noticed that his reaction wasn’t exactly what I was looking for, and I struggled to keep myself together. I wished that, somehow, I could find a way to afford more boxes just so I could keep trying to have my own magical moment with a serial card I got to keep. I stayed with my friend for as long as I could, then went home and quickly fell apart.
To me, pulling a serial card would be the equivalent of any of the dozens of magical moments that happened on my trip to New Zealand, where it felt like everything was perfect even though there were nights when I ate potato chips for dinner and I was terrified of the four-wheel drive “adventure” I had been so thrilled to book.
It reminded me that I’m not normally a person whose emotions swing wildly, but I went from the happiest three weeks of my life to the saddest and scariest time in my life (tied with my blood clot) in so little time that sometimes I still feel like my head is reeling.
I realized then, as I sat at home and sorted the cards like I always do while trying to love what I had gotten instead of being jealous like a little kid, that I had been chasing so hard to feel even the tiniest bit of that euphoria, that magic, that pervaded nearly every moment of my trip.
I was hoping, when I went to DragonCon this Labor Day weekend, that I would be able to feel the magic. But it didn’t happen. I didn’t want to stay long at the elf party or dance to even a single song even though I knew them all. I didn’t have anything to say at the fanfiction panel. I didn’t get a thrill out of cosplaying or care enough to go to a single photoshoot. I still went to most of my usual places and participated in many of my usual activities, but my heart wasn’t in it.
Honestly, that scared me. I’ve never felt that way at DragonCon, and in terms of the Magic cards, I had never felt genuinely sad about opening a product I’d looked forward to for so long. Even though I can still be happy about things I love, it’s a muted happiness - like in The Sims 4 when a negative moodlet like grief lingers in the background of happy ones, not taking them away entirely but changing how they’re perceived.
This upcoming week will be six months since Nana died, and I’m scared that I won’t find the magic again.
I’m worried that I won’t ever get another fantasy or science fiction story idea that I’d love to write. I’m worried that, no matter what I do, no matter how hard I work in therapy, I won’t be able to find anything that makes me feel like I felt in New Zealand apart from sharing memories of when everything felt perfect.
I never realized how much every day would change without Nana. Even though I can function without her and am settling in well to my new job and routine, I never knew her absence would affect so many little things I never thought of no matter how much I tried to prepare for life without her.
I knew I would miss her whenever I open my empty mailbox or walk home from a late-night activity without her on the other end of the phone. But in the last six months, I discovered there’s so much more I never could have predicted.
I miss Nana whenever I want to talk to anyone late at night, as she stayed up even later than me and I never woke her no matter how late I called.
I miss Nana when I have any kind of good news, even though I could say word-for-word exactly what she would say about being proud of me.
I miss Nana’s reactions to silly things, like my Roomba or the way I dust the swords I bought in New Zealand so they sparkle as they hang on the wall - and to serious things like the way she would check on me so many times a day if I didn’t feel well and tell me how much she was praying for me.
Speaking about Nana in the past tense feels easier, even though I still feel a weird mix of “she’s been gone forever” and “it hasn’t even been that long.” I’m in the phase of grief where my reminders of her are more subtle, but still so prevalent that I think of her every day. And I feel a desperation to seek things like serial numbered cards to see if I’m even capable of feeling magic at all.
My friend later told me that he should have hidden the serial card from me, that it would have made me less upset. He’s not wrong, but the experience also helped me realize that I need to figure out two things looming in my head at this point:
How can I stop minor disappointments from feeling like crises just because Nana isn’t there?
And, more importantly, how do I find the magic?
My favorite part of having OCD has always been this magic, which comes from my ability to fixate on the things I love the most, but I can’t do that if they make me sad. I don’t quite know what this process will look like, but I feel like I’ll have to undergo some kind of journey of reframing my thoughts in order to really feel like myself again.
I know the magic is there. Just like when I couldn’t find it during my junior year breakdown or at other times when I’ve been too clouded to see it, I always managed to find it again. I don’t know how I’m going to do it at this point, but six months in, all I’ve managed to get are tiny tastes - a moment of feeling beautiful in my elf dress, a commute where I daydream myself into one of my favorite stories, losing an hour or two in a favorite video game.
I first felt the magic after my junior year crisis when I found a shiny pokemon I had been hunting for months. It didn’t fix everything, but it did remind me that I was capable of feeling that level of joy and that it was coming back. I was getting better. And somehow, nine years later, I was able to feel the magic at its strongest and fly all the way around the world and take a trip many of my friends consider brave even though it felt like every dream I’ve ever had coming true at once.
One problem here is that I’m not hunting any shiny pokemon, which takes time instead of money - and there is a limit to how many cards I can sell and how many boxes I can try to sift through in what would likely be a vain attempt to get a serial card.
I need to get creative to find something else that would work, and no matter how hard I’ve tried, my lessened creativity hasn’t been up to the task. I know I’ll get there somehow, but right now feels like when I start writing a story and I always start at the end, know the beginning, and puzzle endlessly about the middle.
I hope to write a joyous update one day that something just clicked and I found the magic. But until then, all I can do is focus on self-care, doing what needs to get done in the practical things in life, and (let’s be honest, impatiently) wait for a miracle.
Michelle Cohen, a writer in the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.