Confessions of an Obsessive CompulsiveOkay, I haven’t really written about anything too heavy or meaningful. In my free time, I love to write. I write all kinds of things, of all kinds of genres, but when it comes to short little blog posts, I usually tend to err towards the lighter side of things. This is one topic, though, that I really did want to write about for some time, but I’ve just been sort of…shy? Ashamed? There isn’t really a fitting adjective. I just feel it’s sort of under-represented. Here’s the thing. They have the dramatic tv shows and movies about the character who is using drugs, who spirals into a one month eating disorder (which is a story for another time), the woman who begins to feel so sad she can’t get out of bed and develops serious depression, the teenage bipolar, etc etc etc etc. Etc!
But no one ever talks about OCD. Not really. Why is that?
It breaks her heart sometimes. On a rare occasion, at school or in a store, anywhere, she see someone doing something that she recognizes. And she just wants to reach out and go ‘I know how you’re feeling, trust me, I know how much this sucks.’
But like most people, it’s easier to just turn away and pretend you didn’t see. You don’t acknowledge it. Why? Why are we so embarrassed to admit things about ourselves to others? To be judged?
It is not just the girl who washes her hands five times in a row. It’s not that simple. Any tv specials she’s seen on the topic, or articles she’s read, have been disappointing to say the least.
Everyone has their quirks. It’s not that easily defined. It's what happens when a quirk turns into an obsession, turns into something that plays a major role in your life.
She doesn’t really notice it, because it’s so normal to her. If she stops to reflect, though, she realizes how weird it seems. How much of her time these stupid, repetitive things are taking.
She is the girl who lines up her notebook, pen, and assignment, all at perfect 90 degree angles. Everything parallel. Because everything must be parallel
She is the girl who organizes her books by genre. No, alphabetically by author. No!- alphabetically by title. No, she’s got it- by size! The organizing doesn’t stop, because it isn’t logical. There is no reason that one method is better than the other, so she just keeps doing it.
She is the girl who feels calm when it is clean. When things are messy, she feels chaotic.
She carries hand sanitizer in her purse.
She has an impeccable locker- books lined up perfectly, jacket on the hook, no extra papers, nothing loose, nothing extra. No mess.
She is the girl who only likes even numbers. Odd numbers are wrong. She doesn’t know why, but they are. She cannot stop reading on a page that is an odd number, as if the book would swallow her whole if she does.
She is the discreet toucher. She hides it because she knows it doesn’t make sense, that they’ll think it’s weird. She taps her desk with her left index finger- she must tap it with her right index finger. Or they won’t be even. And then she must tap it twice more- and twice on the other side.
It doesn’t end.
It is like algebra- what you do to one side, you must do to the other. Or the equation remains unsolved. Things remain unfinished.
She is silent not because she has nothing to say. She is silent because she is counting in her head. Spelling words. She does not know why.
She is the first one finished the test, but the last to hand it in, because she's checking it over. Again and again. Just in case.
She is in a constant organizational flurry. Things must be constantly fixed- the towels folded perfectly. The dvds and cds tucked in, not hanging over the edge of the shelf. The items lined up according to size. The list is endless. Her mother loves that her room is so clean lately, not realizing that with this cleanliness comes a slow pain. A hand shaking, its owner trying to restrain itself from fixing, straightening, tidying.
You just straightened that. It's fine.You don't have to do it again.
Nothing bad will happen
She straightens it again. She doesn't have a choice.
She must do these things or something bad will happen. There are never specifics- she never has a concrete event that will occur. She just knows it will be bad, so precautions must be taken.
She is your best friend. She is that quiet kid in your chem class. She is your friendly neighbourhood blogger. You don't know who she is, because she probably won't ever tell you.
She is trapped in her parallel life.
And she doesn’t mind- not really. She's used to it. She just hopes that somewhere out there, by some freak occurance, someone might read this. And they might feel just a little less bad about themselves. A little less weird.
