Snapshot

I wash my arms over and over until I feel like maybe some of the germs have found their way to the bottom of the drain. If I tried to count the exact number of washes I’d most likely lose count and then my mind. I’ve rubbed the skin of my body so extensively that I can no longer feel the scratchy material of the sponge or keep a decent lather. My fingertips are pruney and wrinkled by the first stage of the cycle. At work I find myself clicking the pen in patterns of four, then another four, another, one more and maybe I will finally be able to refocus. And when the pen doesn’t click right, maybe it’s not loud enough, maybe it squeaked on the second set but not on the first—I have to do it again and again until the sets balance in a series of four. That could be 16, 32, 40, 48—as long as it’s sets of four maybe I can shake the nagging feeling of unease. Just talk it out, just write it out—that’s what a journal is for, they say. I’ve been trying that for 13 fucking years, when the hell does it start to feel better? I was maybe seven when the OCD rushed through my veins like heroin I was instantly addicted, not by choice, not by desire, maybe by genetics or weakness of mind? I remember the moment it took hold, as a child something my mother said sparked the hand washing fourteen times in a row. I think she saw it then and knew, maybe she knew what I had in store but being my mother didn’t want to be the one to condemn me. I searched subconsciously for distraction maybe that’s why I started writing in the first place. I tried to fill the void inside me that developed when I heard the words cancer and my mother. Practically from birth I knew of her illness—sometimes I wonder if that was the foundation on which OCD built itself home. Those were the years of the minor things: the counting, avoiding cracks in the pavement, the introduction of actions in batches of four. At fourteen, when my mother passed that’s when the OCD latched on—I became the host to a vicious monster that wanted to consume me. It became the more mental, more severe; it embedded itself into the corners of my brain, seeped into all the good parts that still made me happy—the parts I cherished and protected. They say traumatic events can be a trigger, I guess they’re right because from that day forward there was no turning back. It didn’t take long for the panic to reappear—same nasty creature but this time it had a name and came in fits of sobbing and bouts of hyperventilation. Are the walls closing in or is it just me? Do you hear that screaming? It’s coming from me, you say. I didn’t know. The simple act of washing my hands holds the power to alleviate the pressure pushing me down or it can cause me to burst into uncontrollably tears that spill loudly or soundlessly depending on the day, making me want to fall to the floor hugging myself rocking back and forth. The simple act of feeling emotions has the power to crumble me, I ignite with the fury of 40,000 bees in the center of my chest, I can’t control it. I can’t express it, there’s something wrong with how I process emotions. There’s an internal explosion. I try to put the pieces back together but I can’t make sense of them. It flusters and breaks. Magnifies and screams And if the tears come I’m almost happy because that means there’s a chance I will feel better. Add in my period, TMI I know, and I swear I’m clinically insane. Something happens that intensifies everything. I never feel lower, feel more worthless, more hopeless than I do once a month when my ovaries expel eggs and my body attempts to balance it out. The solutions buried in there somewhere I just know it. And in these rare moments when I bare myself to the world, when I speak with such honesty—I’m terrified. I open myself up to being misunderstood, to someone slapping a fragile sticker on my forehead. That may well be true but I carry that responsibility not you. If as you hear this you find yourself thinking I’m crazy I will tell you this—join the club. The hardest thing for me to understand is that I AM NOT CRAZY. I’m a little damaged, but who isn’t? There’s strength in enduring all the obsessions and compulsions—all the thoughts on constant replay in my head that I have still not yet mentioned. This is the dark part of me I’ve never shared with anyone but my sister. I’m showing glimpses—snapshots if you will to experiment. Does having people know— Does explaining my struggle make me feel any better? I still can’t tell. =Amanda= 9/5/13 around 8pm

Why do I feel like such a freak?

Sometimes I wonder if I up and move away, if I move somewhere no one knows me, could I become a different person? Could I become someone else? I’ve considered this before. Many times I’m sure. Especially when the OCD hits me hard and I am left feeling like a freak show. I try so hard to hide it. I try to curb it as much as possible but then I realize it is stronger than me and will do whatever the hell it wants to do. I just have to stand there and take it. But more and more lately I just can’t take it. I hate the looks on people’s faces when I wash my hands for the tenth time. Or the way they stare when I use a piece of paper to open the door. I can’t help it. I really can’t. I see their pity. I see their curiosity. I see how crazy they think I am. People ask why don’t I just stop. If it bothers me so much why don’t I just stop doing those things? That’s a valid question I guess but it tells me you don’t understand me at all. OCD isn’t a choice. I can’t choose to stop washing my hands so many times or decide to just open the door with my bare hands. I can’t choose to stop being so afraid or decide to stop counting things. OCD is a crippling disorder. It physically and mentally hurts me. It drains me. I don’t want to constantly think about germs or my fear of dying. I don’t want to repeat hurtful things people say to me over and over and over in my mind. I don’t want to continuously think about whether or not I closed the fridge, locked the door, or if that lady beside me in the store just said she was sick. I don’t want to have this loud speaker blaring in my head 24 hours a day. It’s all I hear. I try so hard to concentrate on what you are saying to me but all I see is you getting dangerously close to touching me. I wash my hands so many times a day that by the end of the night my skin is red and flaky. Do you think I like that? Do you think it makes me feel good to see my hands so dried out and worn? Do you think it makes me feel pretty? I have to wash my hands because they don’t feel clean. They feel dirty. I feel contaminated. I can’t stop thinking about all the germs they could have on them. I can’t stop freaking out and being so afraid of getting sick. Washing my hands used to make those thoughts become a little quieter. The compulsions are my brains way of trying to protect myself, trying to quiet the obsessions that ravish my sanity. Maybe if I click the pen four times I will feel better. Maybe if I count my steps I will feel better. Maybe if I shake my foot in patterns of four the thoughts will go away. Maybe if I don’t walk under power lines I won’t have a bad day (See I can’t even say maybe I will have a good day because being positive about anything makes me terrified something bad will happen). Maybe if I do all these compulsions, maybe if I do everything, maybe just maybe things will be okay. Maybe nothing bad will happen. I just have to keep doing these things. If I don’t do them, if I don’t check to make sure that I closed the fridge by pressing it firmly four times I won’t be able to function. I won’t be able to stop thinking about that damn fridge door afraid that I left it open. I will lie in bed fidgeting; I won’t be able to think. I won’t be able to watch TV or write or carry on a fucking conversation. I will only be able to think about that damn fridge door and wonder if I closed it all the way. I want so badly to be normal. I want the obsessions to stop. I want the compulsions to stop. I want to be able to go through my day without being terrified of germs, of getting sick, of making plans, of being positive. I don’t have goals or plans or hopes or dreams. I don’t have any of that because I can’t. I am too afraid that if I have those things something bad will happen. I am too afraid to be happy because I am terrified something bad will happen because I was happy for that one damn second. I am not a human. I am not happy. I am a freak, I feel like one. I am a shell of a person on a default setting. So when you ask me why I don’t just stop, when you look at me like I am crazy, when you make snide comments about something you don’t understand, please for one second, please think about how much it hurts me. Think about how fucked up I feel. Think about how much it tears me apart to be this way. Think about the fact that it is a disorder that I can’t control. Think about how isolated I am because not many people understand or are willing to deal with my quirks. Think about how much it bothers me and realize that it can’t bother you more than it does me. Think about how much I hate myself.

I call myself crazy so that when others do it might not hurt as bad.

I sit in my car staring at the door. I wonder if I wait long enough if someone will open the door to leave the store. If I see them head for the door I can jump out of the car quickly and make it to the door before it closes.  I can catch the corner of it with my foot so that I won’t have to touch it. Here we go! A car pulls into the parking spot next to me. I wait until the driver opens his door and then I do the same. I walk just a little slower than him so that he makes it to the door before I do. I watch as he grabs the door handle and pulls it open without thinking about it, without hesitation. The idea of touching that door handle with my bare hands disgusts me. Walking into a store behind a man or entering a store as a man is leaving has its benefits. There’s about a 50% chance that he will hold the door open for me. I’m guessing it’s because I’m a woman and I often make a point to make eye contact with the person touching the door and smile at them; this often leads to me not having to touch the door at all which is a great relief.

I thank the man for holding the door for me with a smile. As he heads for the snack aisle I wonder if he will wash his hands before he eats. The answer is generally no. I see people touch door handles, gas pumps, counters, anything in public and then they touch their face, rub their mouth, or open a bag of chips and pop them into their mouth with dirty hands. It disgusts me. It freaks me out. It terrifies me. How can they do that? How can they do that with dirty hands?