OCD feels like
check to make sure your mask is straight
it feels like a
it's not tight enough, move the strap again
it's a lot like
they touched your hand when you handed it to them
Well, it's like wearing a really big
wash it again, it's still tingling
really big backpack.
I don't mean this to be a poetic exploration that romanticizes the rituals
The rituals. It's more like how advertising has become extremely intrusive. It's like spyware, on your phone, on your computer, on your radio, betting ads that play constantly, 24/7, trying to get you to spend money that you don't have. It's like going into debt because you can't stop gambling, you're addicted.
what if you're addicted to
No, maybe not "addicted." That's probably the wrong word. wrong word wrong word wrong word wrong word imagine
I know you cooked the shit out of the chicken, but check the temperature again and make sure it's 74 degrees. 82 degrees. browned on both sides. al dente. there's nothing in here that can kill me if i eat it raw. there's nothing in here that can kill me if i eat it raw. It's vegetarian pasta. Fucking relax. Wait, the vegetables can kill you now, too, you can't eat them raw anymore. Boil them. Boil them. Boil them. You can't eat them raw. They'll kill you too. Follow the cooking directions. Re-check them once you dig the package out of the gargage. Wash your hands. Wash your hands after you touch the package, before you touch the food. touch the spoon. touch the clean dishes.
I don't shake people's hands anymore, but it's probably because I found out how few people wash their hands properly since 2020. I think I was like this before then, though.
I do, admittedly, have a few dietary restrictions since coming out of my twenties, like red meat (it really upsets my guts and apparently that's fairly normal), but a lot of the time, I can't eat meat at all anymore because I'm scared that I'm going to cook it wrong this time. Sometimes I have days where it feels like all food is poisonous, and will make me throw up or otherwise ill-
check the expiry. check it again today. only two more days. never eat cooked pasta after day 3.
The story with that is, I used to (fairly regularly, unfortunately) find food in the fridge that had gone bad. I essentially grew up in a restaurant, so it's safe to say my food safety skills are keenly developed more than that of
cross contamination. wash your hands more than that of other people. But if you've ever worked in a restaurant, especially a shitty one... you know. You know people work sick, that they clocked in knowing they just threw up in the bathroom because they have the stomach flu
NOROVIRUS. it's NOROVIRUS. there is no stomach 'flu' I don't know. Maybe that's the 'patient zero' of the symptoms. Maybe it was finding bad food in the fridge one too many times. Maybe it was because I had a physically disgusting roommate that did not shower for the 18 months I lived with them, and we had to share the same toilet.
skin flakes on the fucking seat and i can't sit down to - not unless i clean it with ammonium chloride step directly into your house shoes out of the shower because the floor is dirty Maybe it was an emotionally abusive relationship and the intrusive thoughts about my own morality
it's spelled m-o-r-t-a-l-i-t-y ... I don't know. Maybe it was the fact that we didn't and still do not have a neutralizing vaccine for COVID-19 and I constantly feel like I'm taking fucking crazy pills being the only masker in a very many public spaces. Maybe it's
treat everyone like they're infected it's asymptomatic they're too close they're breathing
Sometimes I have to tell my OCD thoughts that there's not going to be a pool party, you stupid slut; and sometimes they quieten down. Sometimes they're extremely intrusive. Sometimes I have to do the stroke symptoms check when I come across an unfamiliar smell, or I get a flashing image of an ischemic stroke I once saw in a TV show no matter how many times I stick my tongue out in the mirror
smile in the mirror lift both arms stick your tongue out blink and check both pupils dilate evenly
and it takes me out for the rest of the fucking day. I know the best hand lotions for my skin type precisely because I have raw and bloody knuckles for about eight months of the year because
did you know that COVID-19 peaks in cooler temperatures
it's winter for eight months of the year and I'm using warm water on cold hands with alcohol-based soap several times a day because I'm at work and someone just came in coughing into the open air
wash them again. adjust the straps. don't breathe. turn the overhead fan on. In case you're wondering, the best lotion for my skin is
I'm still finding it. This is what I use now Sometimes it's straight up petroleum jelly and gloves.
Sometimes... sometimes I say goodnight to an empty apartment, in case someone is with me in spirit and I don't want to forget about them. I guess that's where the "religious delusion"
goodnight, everybody. sleep tight.
comes in with the horde of symptoms. It's usually after checking the door to make sure it's locked, even if I checked it right after I locked it, right after I got home. Right after
checking the other door. checking the car doors. When people say it's time consuming, it's all consuming, it's energy consuming, it's
two beeps, always two beeps. two beeps, two locks. double locked. check the door and turn halfway down the stairs to go up the stairs to check it again. say out loud to yourself, 'locked'.
What bothers me is that I'm not diagnosed. I'm not diagnosed with much, to be fair, but I don't know if I'm
faking it. you're faking it.
I tend to keep it inside. It's a lot of inner turmoil every day, and I have to reassure myself and then also the people reading this that I'm probably not faking it, that so-called "normal" people probably do not put this much (intrusive) thought into whether meat is going to kill them, or if they're going to catch a disease, or reading about someone getting chemotherapy means you're next, or if enjoying pornography a normal amount makes you an irredeemable pervert. Some of the intrusive thoughts that can't be played off as comedic or witty get swallowed up inside somewhere, and they fester into enormous worries and anxious internal shouting when I'm in a normal social situation. There are very few people in my life, and even fewer that Get It because they're also traumatized in the way I am traumatized. There are few people who patiently reassure me that I'm not as crazy as I think, or that it's the disorder speaking, and not reality. There are few times when I can calm myself down effectively, and I resort to (over) protective behaviours in order to reach that calm.
OCD, to me, is like the Rumination Special. If you think about it enough, you'll either scare yourself to death or tire yourself out enough that you recede gradually into numbness or sleep. I don't know if it's like that for everyone else. Coping with it has really become an exercise of "if... then..." and "if I die, I die."
now tell everyone that you're not here for them to throw sympathy at you, because it seems like you're really looking for sympathy by sharing this.
The puppet master pulls the strings up, and it forces me to smile, and to tell you that I'm not out here looking for sympathy, or attention, or a "you're so brave," because I'm really not. I'm probably just checking myself in the mirror for the common signs of a stroke again.