OCD is an uncontrollable urge. The urge takes over my entire being. I can feel it in my fingers, through my chest, down my legs and in my toes. An urge to flick switches and to check door handles. Every number must be even, unless it’s a multiple of five, then I can relax. I have to sit on the left side of the room, sleep on the left side of the bed, and walk on the left side of my companion. Such little things, simple tasks, that take over my mind and body. I need to do it. Bad things will happen if I don’t turn the tap tight enough, or lock the front door, or if I leave the volume on twenty-three.
OCD is an ambush of troubling thoughts; a mental whirlpool of worry, doubt and fear. Intrusive thoughts take up residence in my mind. I desperately try and evict them. I beg for them to move on, to find another home, but they threaten me with violence. I’ve tried changing the locks and barricading the door, but they always come back.
OCD is time. Hours and hours spent fixing my obsessions and giving in to my compulsions. Hours wasted. I don’t leave the house because it’s easier to keep the door locked. I don’t wash my hands so I don’t have to check the tap. I can’t leave the oven on if I don’t turn it on in the first place. I don’t have to live through the odd numbers if I stop all clocks on the even.
OTHER POSTS IN THIS SERIES:
Writer’s Reverie 