Here's The Deal_ Don't Touch Me Part 1

Here's the Deal_ Don't Touch Me.

by Howie Mandel & Josh Young.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

I was devastated. I was humiliated. And I was probably finished, both professionally and personally. Those thoughts were racing around my head just minutes after doing Howard Stern's radio show. was devastated. I was humiliated. And I was probably finished, both professionally and personally. Those thoughts were racing around my head just minutes after doing Howard Stern's radio show.This is not a joke, nor did it feel funny. It was sometime in the late 1990s, and I was in the middle of a national press tour. Either I was promoting my dream come true, a nationally syndicated daytime talk show, The Howie Mandel Show The Howie Mandel Show, or it might have been right on the heels of its cancellation, when I wanted people to know I was still out there, hopefully funny, and available for work. I can't remember the date or exactly what happened, but I will never forget my feelings.I had been in the business for twenty years as a stand-up comedian, actor, and now host, so I pretty much knew what to expect from these interviews. Most people ask the same soft-ball questions.But Howard Stern is a different animal. His show is about entertainment and controversy, sometimes at the expense of his guests. Even Steven Spielberg might have to sit between two midgets and a hooker and partic.i.p.ate in Howard's circus while he's trying to plug his Holocaust movie. You must bring your A-game and be prepared to roll with whatever is thrown your way.Howard Stern's setup is unlike any other. Normally, you just sit face-to-face with the host and answer questions and focus on being informative and entertaining. But on Howard's show, anyone can chime in at any time from anyplace in the room. Robin, a lovely young lady who has been his sidekick since he started in radio, sits in a gla.s.s booth off to the side. Fred, a longtime staple of Stern's show, usually sits someplace behind you. At that time, Jackie the Joke Man, who either provided comedic input verbally or pa.s.sed along material to Howard, was also there. This was the regular irregularity of this show. Now add to this a guest whose name I cannot remember. I would have preferred two midgets and a hooker, because this interview would prove to be far more dangerous. It was tough enough as it was because of Howard's setup.The mystery guest was wearing a T-s.h.i.+rt and loosely fitting sweatpants. Howard was playing a game where listeners had to guess this guest's special talent. I immediately became a radio show contestant, and I too had to join the guessing game. Being able to see him wasn't an advantage.After many, many calls and repeated clues from Howard, n.o.body had guessed correctly. Finally, Howard revealed this guy's special talent. The man stood up, loosened his sweatpants, and dropped them to his knees. It was like going to a show where the curtain is dropped and the main attraction is revealed. He had a huge p.e.n.i.s, the likes of which I have never seen.I don't know how to describe what I saw. You hear of men with large p.e.n.i.ses. The best way to describe this was a large p.e.n.i.s with a small man on the end.With Howard calling the play-by-play, the guy began doing tricks with his member. He wrapped his p.e.n.i.s around his leg clockwise and tied it into something of a knot. This guy was an amazing talent. I have no idea where he is today, but he's probably huge-not as far as success goes, but wherever he is, he's huge.The whole event was so Howard. He presents the biggest, craziest p.e.n.i.s ever seen-on radio.I was awash with different emotions. The first was jealousy. That was followed quickly by discomfort. I'm not a h.o.m.ophobe, but there is nothing more disconcerting than a man sitting next to you playing with his p.e.n.i.s. I was supposed to be there promoting myself, but I felt as though I were sitting on a two a.m. train back to Brooklyn-not that I've been on a two a.m. train to Brooklyn, nor would I expect the man next to me to be playing with his p.e.n.i.s, but I don't have any other point of reference for this experience.When the p.e.n.i.s manipulator finished his tricks, Howard said goodbye. The guy zipped up and headed toward the door. As a little boy, I had been taught to wash my hands after going to the bathroom, even if I had touched nothing but my own p.e.n.i.s. This guy I had been sitting next to didn't p.i.s.s, but I promise you he touched his p.e.n.i.s. Wait, I'm thinking, where are the hand wipes? As any person would, he grabbed the k.n.o.b, pulled the door open, and was gone. He might have been gone, but in my mind, there was so much more of him still in the room than needed to be.Now that he had left, it was my time to s.h.i.+ne. My job would be to chime in from time to time with some witty repartee. That being said, I don't believe my repartee was witty, if even existent. My entire focus was on that doork.n.o.b that I knew I would have to handle.As Howard went on, I felt like Charlie Brown in Peanuts Peanuts when the teacher speaks and all Charlie hears is "Waw, waw, waw." All I could think about was how I was going to get through the door without touching the k.n.o.b. when the teacher speaks and all Charlie hears is "Waw, waw, waw." All I could think about was how I was going to get through the door without touching the k.n.o.b.The next thing I seem to remember hearing is Howard thanking me for stopping by. In fact, if you listen to a tape of the broadcast, it may not be anything like this. I'm just telling you what was going on in my head.After the goodbyes and thank-yous, I headed toward the door. When I reached the threshold, I very casually, and as naturally as I could, asked, "Can somebody open the door for me? I don't want to touch the k.n.o.b because the guy had his p.e.n.i.s all over his hands, and his hands touched the door." I didn't think it would be an issue.But Howard wanted me to open the door myself.I didn't want to. He had touched his p.e.n.i.s and then he touched the doork.n.o.b.This back-and-forth lasted through the commercial break, and soon we were back live on the air. Howard announced that Howie Mandel wouldn't touch the doork.n.o.b because it had p.e.n.i.s residue on it, and the drama escalated.I stood there for what seemed like an eternity. Though I wasn't physically trapped, I was mentally trapped. At this moment, nothing else existed for me but this problem. I had no awareness that this back-and-forth was being broadcast nationally. I was making no effort to be funny or entertaining. I just wanted to get out of that room, so I lifted the veil of funny and went to honesty.I said something to the effect of: "The joke is over, I cannot touch this door. As much as I imagine this is entertaining, this is real. It's something that I cope with and talk to a therapist about. It's a real issue, and it's part of a bigger condition called OCD. Obsessive-compulsive disorder."That admission was a major event in my life. The fact that I had told Howard Stern that I have a serious mental issue and see a therapist for it may not seem like anything to you, the reader, but this was a big hammer that landed for me. It was like revealing my darkest secret.I remember feeling heart palpitations, a shortness of breath, and an anxiety attack coming on, which is why my memory of the story is somewhat clouded. I could not touch that doork.n.o.b. Truthfully, I don't know what Howard was saying. I do know that I told him what I was suffering from was real. I do know that I was panicked. I do know that I wasn't in the mode to entertain. And I do know that it didn't feel good.As serious as all this was to me, I'm sure it meant nothing to him. I don't believe that anybody in the room felt they were witnessing something of great consequence. Even so, many times when I'm being serious like that, people don't realize that I am being serious. In comedy, n.o.body can hear you scream.Finally, somebody opened the door and let me out of the studio. As the door closed behind me, a real sense of devastation came over me. If there is a palpable feeling to devastation, that was it. I had just told the world that I'm a nutcase.My mind was racing. What are the consequences of talking about this? First and foremost, I said something that was personally embarra.s.sing and would be embarra.s.sing to my wife and children, who have no interest in being in the public eye, least of all as a relative to a mental case. Are people not going to hire me? Every show costs millions of dollars and employs hundreds of people. Why would the producers risk putting someone at the helm who has mental issues?I know this sounds crazy-no pun intended-but you have to realize that I was born in 1955 in Toronto, Canada, and having mental health issues and going to a psychiatrist was not the norm. Society has always attached a stigma to mental health issues, and I'm very much a part of that culture. Outwardly, I seemed to be striving and functioning, but my mental health was not something I talked about publicly. It was certainly not something I talked about on a comedy radio show. If I was going to discuss such a serious subject, it would be with my family, my friends, or my therapist. And maybe if I talked about it publicly, I would do it eleven years later in a book. But not on The Howard Stern Show. The Howard Stern Show.I was truly devastated. I walked down the hall, and it was very dark. It probably wasn't, but it felt dark. Then I got into the elevator. The door closed, and it was even darker. The elevator went down, which was such a great metaphor for how I was feeling. In my mind, everybody was calling everybody else and saying, "Did you hear Howard's show? Howie Mandel's a mental case." My kids were already being ridiculed. My wife was holed up in the house. At USA Today USA Today, they were stopping the presses. CNN had a breaking news flash. The world was coming to a halt to absorb this news.I walked out of the elevator and through the front door onto the street into a teeming ma.s.s of humanity known as Manhattan. Even though I felt I was standing amidst millions of people, I had never felt more alone. My head was hung. I didn't want to make eye contact with anyone.I heard a voice. I kept looking down at the sidewalk, and I saw a pair of feet in my periphery. A man's voice said, "You're Howie Mandel."My heart sank. I thought, This is it. This is the precipice of devastation, and I'm about to go over it. Without looking up, I revealed shamefully, "Yep.""I just heard you on Howard," Howard," he said excitedly. he said excitedly."You did ...""Are you really a germaphobe?"This random guy on the streets of New York was about to begin the public ridiculing that I had brought upon myself. "Yes," I mumbled."And you've got OCD ...," he continued.And now I was descending closer to h.e.l.l than I ever imagined. Running into traffic to get away from this guy was starting to look like the only option. "Yes, I do," I confided.There was a long pause. And then came the two most dramatic words that I have ever heard. They were the words that changed my life and probably are the reason I am writing this book. He said, "Me too."He walked away and left me standing with those two words in my head. That was the first time I realized that there was at least one other person who shared my pain. I've always had people around me who help me and take care of me, but they don't share in my personal misery. n.o.body is inside my head. But there was one guy on the streets of Manhattan who shared what I'm feeling. I was not alone.The walk out of Howard's studio, down that hall and into the elevator, and onto the streets of Manhattan was one of the darkest trips of my life, because I didn't know what I had done or what would happen next. But in the days, weeks, months, and years after that guy said, "Me too," I found there were countless others. People contacted me to tell me they have OCD and that they're working through it in therapy. They would ask me to tape a message to their son so he knew that he wasn't alone. They would thank me for talking about OCD publicly. As much comfort as I feel in knowing that I'm not alone, they took comfort in knowing that there is somebody else who suffers as they do.Without knowing it, I had done myself a service. To date, I'm not aware that revealing my OCD or discussing it has ever cost me a job. OCD has cost me peace in my own head, which it does constantly. There's nothing I can do about that-though talking about it and writing about it is a deterrent from sitting quietly and letting myself sink into that hole.It was the one moment when I publicly revealed the most intimate part of who I am. In this business, people always think they know you. In my career, this feeling has been fractured because my persona has always been so different. I've been the wacky guy who put the rubber glove on his head as a comedian. I've been the voice on Bobby's World Bobby's World to five-year-olds and their parents, who weren't the same people who knew me from comedy. I've been an upstart intern on to five-year-olds and their parents, who weren't the same people who knew me from comedy. I've been an upstart intern on St. Elsewhere St. Elsewhere, which was a highly acclaimed prime-time drama in the 1980s. I've been the empathetic game-show host on Deal or No Deal Deal or No Deal and the prankster on and the prankster on Howie Do It. Howie Do It. But as big a fan as you might be of any of those personas, each one contains only a small piece of me. The closest to who I am each and every day is the person who couldn't escape from Howard Stern's studio. But as big a fan as you might be of any of those personas, each one contains only a small piece of me. The closest to who I am each and every day is the person who couldn't escape from Howard Stern's studio.

November 29, 1955. Toronto, Ontario, Canada. Mount Sinai Hospital. Howard Michael Mandel was born to Albert and Evelyn Mandel. I have absolutely no recollection of my infancy, but I'm told I was the happiest, most idyllic child, not to mention the cleanest child known to man.

As excited as my mother must have been about having me, she tells me that she felt like a child herself. She was just twenty-three, and my father was twenty-nine. She was really nervous about her baby boy and wanted to protect him from the evils of the world at that time-the Commies, nuclear proliferation, and, most important, the invasion of germs. Whenever somebody came over to see her baby, G.o.d forbid they should touch little Howard's teeny fingers. As soon as they left, she would take me into the bathroom and scrub my hands with soap and water. If somebody sniffled and touched my crib, my mother would mark the spot in her mind. She would remember that it was two inches to the left of the headboard, and again, as soon as that person left the room, she would hit that spot with the Lysol, putting me back in my sterile environment.

You might think this was over the top, but the apple didn't fall far from the tree. The first and all recollections I have of visiting my grandparents on my mother's side were of approaching the house and seeing my "bubbie" outside the front door on her hands and knees, waxing the concrete veranda. Waxing. Concrete. Outside. There was no way she was going to allow anyone to track filth into her home. She believed that this was the first line of defense toward maintaining a safe environment-that is, if you ignored the fact that it was very easy to slip and break your neck before you rang the doorbell. Let's weigh the odds here: no dirt on your feet, or a broken neck. She seemed to lean in favor of no dirt on the feet.

Once you were inside, not much changed. As in many homes in the Northeast and Midwest, inside the door there was a tray where you could remove your boots so you didn't track mud and snow into the house. I know there was a boot tray, but my grandmother's was covered in newspaper, because G.o.d forbid the boots should touch the tray. In fact, I don't think I ever touched any of the furniture or carpets in her house because it was all covered with plastic. Everything was hermetically sealed in its place.

So when I now see a picture of me as an infant, posed on a chair in my living room and separated from that chair by a sheet of plastic, it seems to make some sense.

I started my life with the cleanest of slates, so to speak. Everything went swimmingly well for Howard for those first two and a half years in what was metaphorically a perfectly chlorinated pool. But then comes my first memory of infancy. I may not be accurately depicting the facts, but I promise you I'm accurately depicting my memory.

In the last week of October 1957, my mother disappeared. My dad went off to work during the day, driving a cab, and a strange woman showed up at the house to take care of me.

I think her name was Mrs. Weatherburn. I can't remember her name as accurately as I can remember the fact that she wore dentures. I didn't know what dentures were at the time, which made things worse. In addition to being terrorized by the fact that my mother was gone, I had to deal with an old woman who would go into our bathroom in the morning, put her fingers in her mouth, rip out all her teeth in one piece, brush them in front of me, and then put them back into her face.

I felt as if I were living in a horror movie. You have no idea how scared I was. Every day after my father went to work, I was left alone with a lady who ripped out her teeth. All I wanted was my mommy. But Mommy had gone away. I felt like a small, human Jewish Bambi. In the span of seven days, I went from gleefully happy to utterly miserable.

At the end of the week, my dad informed me that we were going to pick up "the baby." I remember this as clearly as yesterday. I can tell you honestly I had no idea what "the baby" meant. He seemed excited about "the baby." He could have said we were picking up a lemur. It would have meant the same thing to me.

I want to clarify what "the baby" was. In the fifties, when women were pregnant and ready to give birth, they checked into the hospital for a week. At that time, children were not welcome as visitors in the maternity ward, which is why I didn't see my mother for a week. All this makes sense to me now, but it didn't then.

We drove to Mount Sinai Hospital in downtown Toronto. I hadn't been there in almost two years, and I didn't recognize the place. It was a cold, gray, drizzly day. We parked in the back of the building, and my dad disappeared inside to get "the baby."

I was sitting quietly in the car with Mrs. Weatherburn, waiting. I remember not saying anything for fear that she might talk to me and bare her teeth. I was afraid that those teeth might jump out at me at any moment. After what seemed like an eternity, my mother emerged through the hospital's big metal door.

I remember watching my mom, who was my whole life, coming out to the car. I was so excited to see her again. She was carrying something wrapped in blankets. This must be "the baby." My dad helped her into the backseat. Mommy leaned over, said, "I love you," and gave me a kiss.

As she leaned over, I looked inside all those blankets she was carrying and I could see a little face. There was another person with my mommy. Who was this? Was it "the baby"?

From that moment on, my life was different. My mom tells me that my whole demeanor changed. My sense of contentment was replaced with agitation.

Stevie-that's what they called "the baby"-needed very little attention. He had a couple of meals a day, a diaper change once in a while, and the rest of the time he slept. If you do the math, it worked out to about 5 percent of my mom's attention. I received the other 95 percent. It wasn't even fifty-fifty between the two brothers, but I was completely distraught. Up until then, it had been me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me. Now it was me, me, me, me, him, me, me, me. Can you understand how devastating this was for me?

Here are some of the ways I handled it. I would walk into the room where they kept little Stevie and scream as loud as I could to make him cry. Then my mom would come in and yell at me for waking up "the baby." But remember, she was yelling at me me, so I had all the attention. One time he stuck his hand through the bars of his crib, and I pulled on it as hard as I could. He had to go to the hospital because I ripped his arm out of the socket. That was horrible, but again, I got a lot of attention for that.

I don't know how this is possible, but throughout our childhood, my brother always had-and continues to have-an amazing love for me. Whenever my mom got upset with me, she'd threaten: "That's it! Wednesday is garbage day. I'm throwing you out with the garbage." My brother would break into tears and plead, "Please don't throw Howie in the garbage." He was so scared that I would be tossed out and he wouldn't have me around. My punishments seemed to punish him more.

I now believe that my brother, Steve, is the reason I have become a performer today. From the moment "the baby" appeared, I spent every waking moment trying to get all the attention. Regardless of whether that attention was positive or negative, it was attention just the same. I didn't make the connection at the time, but child experts say that a good part of your personality and who you are going to be is formed in the first years of your life. If that is true, then the sick need that I have to be accepted and appreciated by people I don't know stemmed from spending my entire childhood trying to get 100 percent of the attention. Obviously, you can't get all all the attention, but I promise you I'm still trying. the attention, but I promise you I'm still trying.

At age four, I was about to meet some other people vying for attention. I was enrolled in school. In the grade of kindergarten at Dublin Public School, to be exact. Looking back, I realize I didn't have a lot going for me. I was allergic to dairy products; I was suffering from seeping eczema and constant ear infections; and I was a bed wetter. And, oh, I forgot, a maniacal attention seeker.

I say bed wetter because I wet the bed, but wetting myself extended far beyond the bed. When I a.n.a.lyze this now-not that I or anyone was diagnosed at the time-I believe this wetting could have been a direct result of having attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, ADHD for short. I have been professionally diagnosed with this disorder as an adult. The characteristics of this are an inability to focus, impulsive behavior, and being easily distracted. I have come to realize these symptoms have plagued me throughout my life. I remember thinking as a child, I have to go to the potty, and then I would see something s.h.i.+ny or hear a voice, and I would be off on a tangent. Soon, I would realize that my pants were wet, and I hadn't made it to the potty.

I don't want you to think I wasn't innovative. Here were the remedies to keep the other kids from realizing that Howard had just p.i.s.sed himself: Through a varying array of excuses, I would dismiss myself quietly before anybody noticed the wet spot covering the front of my pants, find my way to a puddle or a ditch, and submerge myself. There were no puddles or ditches right out the front door, so I had to travel a far distance to trip and fall into a puddle. But this allowed me to hold my head up high and declare proudly to my cla.s.smates, "I've fallen into yet another puddle!" Throughout my early school years, I was known as the kid who would fall into a puddle or ditch six or seven times a year. In retrospect, this seems equally as embarra.s.sing.

My kindergarten teachers were named Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Judge, and I was called by my full name, Howard. I'm Howie now because Howard makes me cringe. Howard comes mostly with the connotation of anger. There was never any good news after Howard. n.o.body ever said, "Howard, we have something great for you." It was always a demand or a reprimand.

All I remember doing in kindergarten was arts and crafts. Once we were doing a landscape, and three days in a row I apparently painted the sky purple. The teachers thought I was trying to be funny or combative, so they made me stand behind the piano. This was my first sense of what it felt like to be an outcast. All of the other kids were having fun painting skies, and I was placed behind the piano.

One day, my mom visited me at school and found me behind the piano. When it was explained to her what I had done, she asked me to show her the blue crayon. I picked up the purple crayon. She consulted with our family doctor about why I would do that. He eventually figured out that I was colorblind. Oh, good, let's add that to my list of attributes.

So I remember my kindergarten years as everybody playing while I stood behind the piano, not knowing why I was different from the other kids.

By first grade, I had other issues. Everyone including me knew how to tie their shoelaces. But when the other kids' laces came untied, they would retie them. When my laces touched the filthy ground, I could not bring myself to touch them. My grandmother had not waxed the schoolyard. The horror of touching those laces far outweighed the embarra.s.sment of spending the rest of the school day and my trek home walking like Quasimodo, dragging my foot so that I wouldn't lose my shoe. It's amazing that n.o.body ever mentioned how strangely I walked.

To this day, my mother recounts a miserable child walking home from school. She could see me from our porch two blocks away, dragging one leg with the untied shoelace behind me.

My young brother, Stevie, had a sense of the things that horrified me. Like most brothers, we got into many scuffles. I'm not saying we didn't punch and hit and cause personal injury. But if I was chasing him, his last bastion of defense was running to the laundry hamper, removing the lid, and waving it in my direction. Just the sight of that lid was like my kryptonite. The tables would turn, and now he was chasing me. I would scream as if someone were after me with a knife. The lid of the laundry hamper doesn't sound toxic, and I don't know what I thought would happen if it touched me, but I was horrified and the fight would come to an end. Everyone including me just accepted this as the norm.

Looking back, I see that I was acc.u.mulating many letters-ADHD and OCD. It would take decades to solve this puzzle. I'd like to buy a vowel, Pat.

I remember agitation being the pervasive emotion of my childhood. I believe this is a rough start for any child. I was a lactose-intolerant, color-blind outcast with ear infections who had a maniacal need to be the center of attention, sometimes walked like Quasimodo, randomly fell into puddles, and had a crazy fear of hamper lids. With all these gifts, I was off to make my way in the world.

As tough as this sounds, I lived a wonderful childhood. One of the biggest highlights was our family's yearly trip to Miami Beach during winter break. Remember I'm a Jew, so this was my Christmas. The night before the trip was like Christmas Eve. I had always heard about how all the non-Jewish kids couldn't wait to wake up on Christmas and open their presents. They would stay up late with antic.i.p.ation and then get up before the sun rose on Christmas morning and sit under the tree with the presents until their parents woke up.

My parents would put my brother and me to bed early because we were leaving at four a.m. Steve and I had rooms across the hall from each other, and we would sleep with our doors open and try to stay awake all night. We could hear our parents in the living room watching Johnny Carson and smell the pizza they had ordered.

"Steve, we're going tomorrow," I whispered across the hall.

"This is great," he whispered back.

The next morning, our parents bundled us up in our winter coats and put us in the family car for the three-day journey to Miami. They lodged a suitcase between us so we wouldn't fight and gave each of us lame toys to play with as a distraction. One was a small game board of a man's face that was filled with little pieces of metal shavings you could move around with a magnetic pen to make a hairpiece or a mustache on the man. The other was a piece of cardboard that had a sheet of opaque plastic on top of carbon paper. You could draw a picture and then lift the plastic to make it disappear.

People are probably reading this, thinking, I had those games, they weren't lame, I loved them. So did I-for the first several hours. Let me go further: maybe even the first day. But for three eight-hour days, there are only so many faces and mustaches one can draw. And then let's not forget about my undiagnosed inability to focus.

The antic.i.p.ation of getting to Miami was my salvation. We'd strip off layers of clothing as we got farther and farther south, until finally we were in Miami Beach. I remember coming over the causeway with my face pressed to the window and seeing streets lined with palm trees and brightly colored hotels lined up on the beach. It was like arriving in Oz.

We stayed in what is now known as South Beach, either at the DiLido (now the Ritz-Carlton), the Nautilus, or the Surf-comber, always in one room with three beds, one roll-out for my parents and one each for my brother and me. I would fall asleep and wake up when it was still dark out, and then I'd wait until the sun came in through the blinds. At the first little streak of light on the ceiling, I would get out of bed and crack the blinds. It felt like days before anyone else woke up. As usual, I was agitated, but I couldn't wait to get outside so I could be agitated in a sunny place.

On one particular trip, I was playing in the sand, which I loved. My favorite game was to dig holes near the ocean. I would dig and dig until I reached water, which caused the sides to cave in. Then I would dig faster and try to beat the sides from caving in. I don't know what I thought the endgame was, but I kept digging. I never met any Asian people, so apparently I didn't dig deep enough.

Sometime during my morning of digging, a sand fly landed on my leg and bit me. It wasn't a painful bite. I didn't even remember the bite, but I now know that I was bitten by a sand fly.

The next morning, I woke up with a little b.u.mp on my leg. It looked like a mosquito bite, so I scratched it. When I moved my hand away, the b.u.mp had elongated and moved a half inch from where it had been right in front of my eyes. I thought, This can't be possible.

By the end of the vacation, I had about twenty of these b.u.mps, which had grown to look like worms under my skin. I had one on my wrist and ten on each leg. They were itchy, and they moved. I was freaked out, and I sensed that my mom was, too, though she didn't show it.

Three days later, after driving across the United States, adding sweaters and coats as we moved farther north, we were back in Toronto.

Our first stop was Dr. Weinberg's office. I really liked Dr. Weinberg. He was a calming presence, but I knew that what I had was a big deal because the only doctor I had ever seen in my life sent us to another doctor. If Dr. Weinberg couldn't help me, then I must have monsters living in me. I was really scared.

The new doctor identified this condition as larvae being laid under my skin. Apparently, the sand fly laid its eggs in me, and they were being hatched just under the surface. We were informed not to worry because this happened frequently ... to cattle! ... to cattle! After some research, I was prescribed a pill that, to date, had been given only to a cow. My recollection is that the pill was the size of a DVD-and not a great-tasting DVD, I might add. After some research, I was prescribed a pill that, to date, had been given only to a cow. My recollection is that the pill was the size of a DVD-and not a great-tasting DVD, I might add.

The next morning was not unlike any other. I got up, brushed my teeth, had breakfast, took my cow pill, and went to school. But about an hour into cla.s.s, I pa.s.sed out in front of everyone.

Shortly after that, I was sent to a third doctor, who I now know was a dermatologist. He touched my bites and watched them move. He seemed excited by what he was seeing and asked if we could come back in two days.

Apparently, there happened to be some sort of dermatology convention coming to Toronto. Dermatologists from all over the world gathered to learn and study cures to various illnesses. Lo and behold, this dermatologist had found me, and I was going to be the prime specimen to be exhibited at his symposium: "A Boy with the Disease of Cows."

After a couple of days, we showed up at the designated address. The dermatologist brought me into an examining room. He removed my pants and put me on the examining table. He began touching the bites on my legs, and the little monsters began moving under my skin.

The dermatologist excused himself and returned with four other doctors. Now there were five doctors standing over me, hemming and hawing at the movement under my skin. He then explained to his colleagues the necessary treatment.

At that point, I didn't really understand what he was saying, but I can now tell you as an adult that he suggested liquid nitrogen. For anybody who doesn't know, liquid nitrogen is similar to dry ice. It's incredibly cold, so cold that it actually burns.

He explained that a sand fly had laid its eggs and their larvae were living under my skin. Every time I scratched one, it would motor to a safe haven. I did have enough wherewithal at that age to understand that there was something living in me. There is nothing more terrifying than picturing something icky crawling around inside of you.

The doctors all moved in closer to see the results of this experiment. I wasn't given any painkiller, anesthesia, or comfort. In front of all these people, the dermatologist prepared to cure me of these monsters that inhabited my body.

The nurse brought in the liquid nitrogen. The dermatologist placed a drop on the ridge of the b.u.mp at the arch of my foot. As the drop hit the ridge, it actually sizzled and burned. I screamed. I was being burned alive in front of an audience. Not only did the b.u.mp sizzle, it bubbled and formed a giant blister.

I could see the flesh come off my leg and bubble up like a sphere. The pain was piercing. I was screaming and yelling. The doctor had the chance to hit only one or two before I looked desperately at my mother, who was crying, saying, "Please, stop!" Even the other doctors were telling him to stop.

That's one of the first palpable memories I have of not being in control. I don't know why I didn't get off the table and run. When I've told this story, people say, "You were only a kid." But being a kid almost gives you the excuse not not to be in control. I don't remember struggling to get off the table. They didn't have to hold me down. I acquiesced to that horror I had to endure. to be in control. I don't remember struggling to get off the table. They didn't have to hold me down. I acquiesced to that horror I had to endure.

My mother ended the liquid nitrogen treatment by rus.h.i.+ng up to the table, picking me up, and cradling me in her arms. In front of these eminent doctors, she ran out of the room, down the hall, and into the parking lot. I was still in my underpants, covered with giant blisters. She put me in the car and drove me home.

My mother seemed devastated for putting me in that situation and thinking I was in good hands, but I had been tortured. Even worse, I still had all these things living and crawling under my skin.

I can't even begin to tell you what this did to me psychologically. To this day, when I think about it, I can see the image of my skin bubbling. It feels as if there are organisms trying to make their way under my skin, and I'm taken back to those icky, creepy crawling monsters that need to be burned away. This is the feeling that recurs each and every time my OCD is triggered by the thought of germs on my body. Hence, I immediately rush to the sink or shower and spend as long as I can under scalding water, trying to wash away this mental torture.

Clearly the doctors didn't have the answer, so my mom came up with a remedy. Every night after my bath, she would take a dry, rough washcloth with antiseptic solution on it and rub one of the ridges. At first it felt good, because they were itchy. The itchiness would subside. But she would keep rubbing and pressing and rubbing and pressing until eventually the pressure broke the skin and a yellow fluid would ooze out, which was actually the larvae. She would then clean the spot with the antiseptic.

We picked one b.u.mp a night, which she rubbed and pressed until it broke open and emptied out. When she had cleaned them all out, the treatment was finished, and the larvae never came back. If I remember correctly, this might have taken a month, but it seemed like an eternity.

In my mind, the nitrogen-on-the-sand-flies was my first performance. My opening act was a person playing with a canister of liquid nitrogen. I was in front of a group of strangers, and it didn't go very well. Though I looked around the room and realized that my show had sold out, it didn't feel good. I just lay there and thought, Oh, my G.o.d, this is the horror I've been sentenced to-as I sometimes feel today in the middle of a performance that isn't going well. But I've never stopped a show to admit, "This is not going well ... good night." Nor has my mom run onto the stage, picked me up, cradled me, and taken me to a safer place. And G.o.d knows that's not a bad idea for a closing.

Now remember, the experts believe the first years of your life form who you are. So there I was: a lactose-intolerant, color-blind, urinating outcast who fell into ditches and puddles, sometimes walked like Quasimodo, had a fear of laundry hampers, was a nesting ground for sand flies, and needed 100 percent attention. Welcome to me.

My mind works in strange ways. I have uncontrollable, repet.i.tive thoughts that just won't go away, regardless of how illogical or unreasonable they might be. This is a hallmark for my obsessive-compulsive disorder. I say "my" obsessive-compulsive disorder, as though I own it. I promise you I share it with millions. I don't think I'm alone in saying that we'd rather give it away than share. Once that trigger is pulled, it sets off a reaction that can consume my entire day. That's why I don't shake hands. I used to shake, but it became a trigger. It's one of the many dichotomies of my life: I'm in the public eye, yet I have a fear of shaking hands.

My therapist will sometimes sit with me, hold my hand, and tell me that I'm supposed to face it, deal with it, and be aware that I'm going to survive. But it's really hard for me to wrap my head around that.

When I do shake hands, my thoughts are the same as many people's. You might think that the person's hand you are touching is covered with germs and you now have those germs on your hand. That's not an abnormal thought. You would wash your hands and go on with your day.

I would have the same thought and go to the sink and wash my hands. But I would make the water hotter than necessary, maybe even scalding, and rub my hands frantically. Then I would dry them and try try to go on with my day. to go on with my day.

But I cannot because I'm obsessed with the fact that those germs are still there, and I have a compulsion to wash my hands continuously. The feeling would be as if the sand fly larvae were crawling under the skin of my hands. I wouldn't be able to focus on anything or even have a conversation until I washed my hands again and again and again and again. It would take several hours to rid myself of those thoughts. Four years ago, I stopped shaking hands. If you come up to me on my book tour and try to shake my hand, I'll know that you haven't read this chapter.

I've always been known as a germaphobe, but the real issue is OCD. According to the National Inst.i.tute of Mental Health, "Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, OCD, is an anxiety disorder and is characterized by recurrent, unwanted thoughts (obsessions) and/or repet.i.tive behaviors (compulsions). Repet.i.tive behaviors such as handwas.h.i.+ng, counting, checking, or cleaning are often performed with the hope of preventing obsessive thoughts or making them go away." This is uncanny. If there were a place in the dictionary to look up Howie Mandel, it would read, "Howie Mandel is an anxiety disorder and is characterized by recurrent, unwanted thoughts (obsessions) and/or repet.i.tive behaviors (compulsions). Repet.i.tive behaviors such as handwas.h.i.+ng, counting, checking, or cleaning are often performed with the hope of preventing obsessive thoughts or making them go away."

I have a seemingly normal life with my wife and three children-at least I'm told they're mine. In my house, the two most commonly uttered sayings are "I love you" and "Wash your hands." People constantly ask me how I maintain a marriage and help raise babies. I can hug, kiss, and touch. My big issues are hands and airborne germs. The use of masks and rubber gloves at opportune times has allowed me to carry on normal relations. I use the word normal normal because I don't know what the real word is. I imagine that until the age of six, my children probably thought their daddy was a surgeon and he just wore work clothes around the house during cold and flu season, which is probably a doctor's busiest time. My mental issues have gone through ebbs and flows. As crazy as this may sound, I have changed diapers. That being said, once all the c.r.a.p was cleaned and the diaper was on, I refused to shake their hands. As far as my wife goes, I have no issues of touching or kissing. There was a lot of that involved in the making of my three children. However, no matter how amorous I feel, should she sniff or cough I quickly retreat to another part of the house. because I don't know what the real word is. I imagine that until the age of six, my children probably thought their daddy was a surgeon and he just wore work clothes around the house during cold and flu season, which is probably a doctor's busiest time. My mental issues have gone through ebbs and flows. As crazy as this may sound, I have changed diapers. That being said, once all the c.r.a.p was cleaned and the diaper was on, I refused to shake their hands. As far as my wife goes, I have no issues of touching or kissing. There was a lot of that involved in the making of my three children. However, no matter how amorous I feel, should she sniff or cough I quickly retreat to another part of the house.

Having spent most of my life trying to hide these issues from the outside world, I long ago learned to embrace the shower as my place of comfort and solace. The state of California has suffered in the past and continues to this day to suffer from a water shortage. I feel somewhat responsible for this. There, I said it.

Back when I was doing The Howie Mandel Show The Howie Mandel Show, I was still shaking hands. I debated switching to the fist b.u.mp but decided to continue shaking because at the time I hadn't revealed publicly that I had any issues. I can't tell you how much just the thought of shaking hands on camera was freaking me out. In any other situation, I could excuse myself and repeatedly scald my hands or go home and suck up the rest of California's water allotment in the shower. But in the midst of a television show, where as the host I had to be there for the entire hour, neither of these options was available. I asked Richard Rosenberg, a friend of mine who's an orthopedic surgeon, to give me surgical soap. Before and after each taping, I would scrub my hands with this medical solution. During that time, I also became aware of Purell and would use vats of it.

Near the end of the run of the talk show, I noticed I had b.u.mps on my hands. I was so freaked. Had I become a nest for the sand fly one more time? I went to a dermatologist, and he explained that these were just warts. A wart is a virus. I had disinfected my hands so much that not only had I killed every germ, I had also killed the antibodies that would fight viruses.

I no longer use the surgical scrub or soak my hands in Purell for hours. I will occasionally use a squirt, and I wash my hands normally. My personal concession is not shaking hands at all, which I admit is a little crazy. I won't touch doork.n.o.bs or toilet handles. If by chance you happen to see me in a public restroom, it's like watching a scene out of Cirque du Soleil. I have trained myself to manipulate lids, faucets, and doors with contortions involving maybe just a knee or an elbow. I know what you're thinking. You could end up with E. coli E. coli on your knee or elbow. But at least it wouldn't be on my hands. This is the logic of OCD. I could sell tickets to my public bathroom contortion performances, but this is one room where I cherish my alone time. on your knee or elbow. But at least it wouldn't be on my hands. This is the logic of OCD. I could sell tickets to my public bathroom contortion performances, but this is one room where I cherish my alone time.

One of the biggest problems I have is meet and greets at my concerts. The purpose of a meet and greet is that in any local market, a radio or TV station runs a contest where you can win tickets to my show, come backstage, meet me, and greet me with a handshake. Before I made any of my mysophobia public, I would put a Band-Aid on my right hand so people wouldn't try to shake it. By the way, mysophobia is a fancy way an author might say "germ pansy." When somebody extended their hand, I would point at the Band-Aid and say, "Look, I can't."

Then they would ask what happened, which I hadn't antic.i.p.ated. I had just worked really hard onstage coming up with over an hour of comedy, I didn't have much left. My response ranged from "I don't know for sure" to "It's a burn." And then if I said it was a burn, they would ask how I burned myself. It became so mentally c.u.mbersome to come up with a cover story that I was forced to find new tactics.

I went out and bought myself a sling. In my mind, the Band-Aid was pinpointing a specific wound, but a sling is much more general. I thought I could get by with "My shoulder is bothering me." I just thought of something. Why wouldn't I have worn the sling onstage? I truly believed that just having it on after the performance was a great idea.

Stupid idea. I would arrive at the meet and greet with a sling on my right arm. As people still extended their hands to shake mine, I would gesture, "Please, I can't." And without hesitation they would just grab my left hand. Why? Why, people, is it necessary to touch? Let's talk. Let's spend some time together. Here's the deal: Don't touch me. I would spend the rest of the night scalding and scrubbing.

I was boxed in. I couldn't wear two slings, so what could I do? Ah-ha, the fist b.u.mp. I didn't come up with the fist b.u.mp. The most amazing thing to me was how my little fist became such an alien thing to most people.

I would put out my fist, and they would just stare at it. They would do everything from grabbing and holding on to it to cupping it in their hands. Talk about an awkward moment. I've had people hold their hand out under it as if I were going to release some magic dust. Some people think it's some sort of hip urban handshake. They would hit me on top of the fist, on the bottom, slap the side, and then bang their chest. I have to explain, "It's not BET, it's OCD." But between me, professional sports, and Barack Obama, people now know what it is.

It's debilitating to know I'm not in control of my own mind. It goes places, and I cannot bring it back. People close to me will tell you that during these times I seem agitated or intolerant. The best description is that I feel incredibly busy in my own mind, and that's why I need distraction. That busyness is sometimes torturous.

I know I spend a lot of time making fun of being a germaphobe, which is such a small part of what I deal with each and every day. I've been able to use humor and public awareness to give myself a little comfort. But for the most part, I'm not comfortable at all. It is serious. There are a lot of people who have these issues. OCD can take your life away. People can become suicidal just to escape, though that is not me.

I watched The Aviator The Aviator, Martin Scorsese's biopic on Howard Hughes. At one point in the movie, Hughes is living in isolation, holed up in a dark room, naked, urinating into bottles. To be honest with you, it really scared me, because as weird as this may sound, I promise you it's not a big leap for me to get there. I spend every waking moment trying to control myself, but it's a battle.

Fear is probably the most powerful driving force in my life. I'm always afraid of losing control. I'm afraid of how I feel. I'm afraid of hurting someone else. I'm afraid I'm going to die in the next minute and a half. This is my life.

I feel like a pilot dealing with fear. A trained pilot is supposed to be able to function in the scariest of situations. Consider that US Airways flight that took off from La Guardia and flew into a flock of geese, disabling both engines. Captain Sully Sullenberger, though in the midst of a dire situation, kept his cool and put the plane down safely on the Hudson River. Brace yourself for this a.n.a.logy. I feel as if the minute I was born, some geese flew into my engines, and I'm just trying to put this life down softly.

The worst thing in the world is to feel isolated, as if I'm the only person who has these feelings. However, a new world has been opened up since the day I talked on Howard Stern. Howard Stern.

There have been times that I feel totally incapacitated. I keep coming back to Howard Hughes. That's very scary to me. He was phenomenally successful, achieved things in business that were unbelievable, and had great relations.h.i.+ps, but then he lost all control. That's my biggest fear in life.

One of the things I can control is not shaking hands. What will be the next thing that I won't be able to do? Or the next thing I can't stop doing, like when I'm compelled to go back and make sure a door is locked ten times?