"Who told you to stop taking your meds, Moish?"
H
is name was Yekusiel Shemaya Tuvia Moshe Wein.
“But you can call me Moish,” he said, with an air of someone who’s been through it enough times that he reflexively explained, “I’m named for a few different elter zeides, and I was also born on Zayin Adar, so my father shlita thought it was a good name. But like I said, just call me Moish.”
And so I got to meet Moish, an older bochur with a history of OCD who had been at the same chassidishe yeshivah for the past seven years. Moish had come for a consultation regarding his medication regimen, and his story was pretty straightforward: He was a “checker,” and a slave to his fears of missing something when it came to kavanos or halachos. His was a textbook case of the bochur who was still adjusting his tefillin for Shacharis three hours later, and would miserably repeat the same tefillah over and over to ensure he’d pronounced Hashem’s Name correctly. He hated his life and was on his way to hating Yiddishkeit.
And who could blame him? The poor guy could barely get through Shacharis before 2 p.m.! How could he possibly feel any connection to a supremely loving Eibeshter?
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