"Yo, weird self discovery moment"
Do I have OCD?
When I was around 5 or 6 I started to notice that I had little voices in my head. I imagined them as small germs with notebooks, kind of like in that episode Spongebob where he has a million tiny spongebobs in his head, working together toward his functioning (and subsequently falling apart during his panic). They would tell me to say and do bad things. I told them to shut up.
This ended with me becoming an extremely well mannered and well-behaved child, terrified of letting the little germs get their way...
When I was 13 I hated the way my body looked in the mirror. I hated my pear shape, my wide hips. I would ask every friend every hour if I was fat, needing them to say no. I dropped 20 pounds in high school by limiting my calories to 1200 a day, oh, and lest us forget extreme exercise if I went over this limit, but I still saw a pig every time I looked in a mirror. This has followed me into my 20s.
When I was 17 I started craving the idea that my head was a peanut butter m and m and that I could smash it against the wall and break it open, revealing a delicious chocolatey-peanut buttery center. Just the thought would make me salivate. In this uninvited fantasy, hot steam would release from the crushed candy-coating, releasing the essence of my misery: my own thoughts. At its peak, I would picture this about every hour. It was calming.
When I was 18 I began to pick at the imperfections. I could not ignore a bump and would not stop until my face was perfectly flat, but then cringe at the throbbing, ruby red leftover. Thank god I have naturally good skin and take care of it. This has possibly been the worst symptom, being that good skin is almost a Papish family value. Wow, I'm realizing that I will sometimes avoid going home because of the marks on my face. Concealer has become my greatest asset and best fucking friend.
I have to double, triple check that I closed the gas tank after getting gas.
I have to double, triple check that I walked into the women's restroom and not the men's. I do this by checking to see if there are any tampon dispensers around. This does not do enough to convince me.
For a while, when ever I would remember a cringy, embarrassing moment, I would utter a simple, one-syllable word, "Gross." It would neutralize the thought.
As a child I would trace the outline of oncoming traffic with my fingers and toes.
When I was 19 I had overwhelming thoughts of swerving into the center divider and blowing up my car into a fiery cloud, like a fast and furious movie. I came too close a few times and enrolled myself back in Chapman psych services. I didn't know what was wrong with me.
20 years old, and I still won't look at porn. I can feel it, those little germs out to get me. They want to undress me, ravage me, leave me to bleed. I am terrified of liking sex.
I am terrified of my own anatomy.
Sex will ruin me. Ruin everything I've built myself up to be. I will drive my partner away by the unorthodox naturality of it all. Those little germs taunt me with horrific protruding thoughts and confusions. I'm constantly guilty. Guilty and embarrassed. I hide under the sheets because maybe if I hide God can't see me.
When I was 8, and I would pray, because I was a good Jewish girl, I would think, "Fuck you, God. Suck a dick," followed by, "I didn't mean that God." And not in an edgy ironic way. I really did not mean it. My brain just went there. It made me sick to my stomach. Cause I loved God. I really loved God.
When I was 14 I became an atheist.
At some point, patterns became God. Everything had to "happen for a reason," and I wasn't just quoting a fucking throw pillow. I needed everything to happen in an order that made sense and I could justify. If it had no justification, I made it up. I needed to get the lead in the school play Junior year because then it made sense why my parents ran out of money in eighth grade and I had to move to public school freshman year...I don't remember specifics but things like that. Just last week, I became so irrationally frustrated when my day-off became a day-on and then I didn't even end up working that next morning so I could have come in the next morning instead...annoying to anyone, but I spent the whole car ride home trying to make sense as to why this happened to me...the timing wasn't right, the timing wasn't right, the timing wasn't fucking right. I don't know if I figured it out or not, but I was furious and frustrated and sad the entire rest of the day.
When I was a freshman in college, I wrote a poem.
"Symptoms of schizoprenia"
sooo, in other terms, I think I have ocd.
When I was around 5 or 6 I started to notice that I had little voices in my head. I imagined them as small germs with notebooks, kind of like in that episode Spongebob where he has a million tiny spongebobs in his head, working together toward his functioning (and subsequently falling apart during his panic). They would tell me to say and do bad things. I told them to shut up.
This ended with me becoming an extremely well mannered and well-behaved child, terrified of letting the little germs get their way...
When I was 13 I hated the way my body looked in the mirror. I hated my pear shape, my wide hips. I would ask every friend every hour if I was fat, needing them to say no. I dropped 20 pounds in high school by limiting my calories to 1200 a day, oh, and lest us forget extreme exercise if I went over this limit, but I still saw a pig every time I looked in a mirror. This has followed me into my 20s.
When I was 17 I started craving the idea that my head was a peanut butter m and m and that I could smash it against the wall and break it open, revealing a delicious chocolatey-peanut buttery center. Just the thought would make me salivate. In this uninvited fantasy, hot steam would release from the crushed candy-coating, releasing the essence of my misery: my own thoughts. At its peak, I would picture this about every hour. It was calming.
When I was 18 I began to pick at the imperfections. I could not ignore a bump and would not stop until my face was perfectly flat, but then cringe at the throbbing, ruby red leftover. Thank god I have naturally good skin and take care of it. This has possibly been the worst symptom, being that good skin is almost a Papish family value. Wow, I'm realizing that I will sometimes avoid going home because of the marks on my face. Concealer has become my greatest asset and best fucking friend.
I have to double, triple check that I closed the gas tank after getting gas.
I have to double, triple check that I walked into the women's restroom and not the men's. I do this by checking to see if there are any tampon dispensers around. This does not do enough to convince me.
For a while, when ever I would remember a cringy, embarrassing moment, I would utter a simple, one-syllable word, "Gross." It would neutralize the thought.
As a child I would trace the outline of oncoming traffic with my fingers and toes.
When I was 19 I had overwhelming thoughts of swerving into the center divider and blowing up my car into a fiery cloud, like a fast and furious movie. I came too close a few times and enrolled myself back in Chapman psych services. I didn't know what was wrong with me.
20 years old, and I still won't look at porn. I can feel it, those little germs out to get me. They want to undress me, ravage me, leave me to bleed. I am terrified of liking sex.
I am terrified of my own anatomy.
Sex will ruin me. Ruin everything I've built myself up to be. I will drive my partner away by the unorthodox naturality of it all. Those little germs taunt me with horrific protruding thoughts and confusions. I'm constantly guilty. Guilty and embarrassed. I hide under the sheets because maybe if I hide God can't see me.
When I was 8, and I would pray, because I was a good Jewish girl, I would think, "Fuck you, God. Suck a dick," followed by, "I didn't mean that God." And not in an edgy ironic way. I really did not mean it. My brain just went there. It made me sick to my stomach. Cause I loved God. I really loved God.
When I was 14 I became an atheist.
At some point, patterns became God. Everything had to "happen for a reason," and I wasn't just quoting a fucking throw pillow. I needed everything to happen in an order that made sense and I could justify. If it had no justification, I made it up. I needed to get the lead in the school play Junior year because then it made sense why my parents ran out of money in eighth grade and I had to move to public school freshman year...I don't remember specifics but things like that. Just last week, I became so irrationally frustrated when my day-off became a day-on and then I didn't even end up working that next morning so I could have come in the next morning instead...annoying to anyone, but I spent the whole car ride home trying to make sense as to why this happened to me...the timing wasn't right, the timing wasn't right, the timing wasn't fucking right. I don't know if I figured it out or not, but I was furious and frustrated and sad the entire rest of the day.
When I was a freshman in college, I wrote a poem.
"Symptoms of schizoprenia"
"Symptoms of chronic mania"
Why do I feel hunted?
All I want,
ALL I want—
A fire sank the titanic.
When I was younger
Young—5 years old
Feeling trapped for the first time,
Grownups with painted smiles—
When I was younger
I wanted to fly away
I wanted to be...
"If you could choose, what superpower would you want, and why?"
Translucent.
Sitting criss cross applesauce
And flapping her cold, white legs
And trying to fly away—
A fire sank the titanic.
All I want,
ALL I want—
A fire sank the titanic.
When I was younger
Young—5 years old
Feeling trapped for the first time,
Grownups with painted smiles—
When I was younger
I wanted to fly away
I wanted to be...
"If you could choose, what superpower would you want, and why?"
Translucent.
Sitting criss cross applesauce
And flapping her cold, white legs
And trying to fly away—
A fire sank the titanic.
sooo, in other terms, I think I have ocd.
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