Almost a year ago, when I texted my mom that my husband and I chose Mexico as our second Caribbean destination, she replied: where in Mexico?
Me: Mayan Riviera.
I wasn't even dot watching.
Then in came her reply: you're 1200 miles away from the drug lords.
Wait. Was 1200 miles an acceptable barrier when it came to drug lords?
I checked the Canadian Travel Advisory website which greeted me with a "high degree of caution" warning for the overall country. Our destination was less bold as it had not been "significantly affected by violence or insecurity."
So, moderately affected?
And then there was El Chapo.
But he wasn't spring break bound. Or was he?
Regardless, I was willing to take the risk. I wasn't travelling to the Middle East. Sure, Mexico might have felt scarier than our first love, Saint Lucia, but, unless the advisory changed to "avoid all non-essential travel," I was going. My young love for the Caribbean held strong against the lure of OCD.
And this is when OCD decided to level the playing field. It didn't like that I was feeling excitement. It didn't celebrate when El Chapo was caught. Instead, it tried a new strategy.
It boldly declared: you're not even going to make it to Mexico. You're going to lose your legs.
Without knowing the intricacies of OCD, or even with knowing them, this likely sounds absurd. But if you know the persuasive powers of feelings in general, you know the gravitational pull they can have. It felt like a hunch, a knowing, an intuition. The Mayan Riviera lost some of its lustre. It was a location I wouldn't make it to.
But we all know where this post is going. We all know I made it. OCD put forth a valiant effort. But so did I. Legs and all.