Against my psychologists’ wishes, I have given my OCD a personality, an avatar in my mind. To me, my personal disorder is like a crow. It is my OCDemon, a vicious creature who not only lurks in every corner of my brain but dances there like a demonic Michael Flatly. He is a confident beast, a malicious extrovert strutting around the deepest corridors of my mind like a psychotic crack-toking John Travolta. I hate him (not John Travolta, although Face Off was terrible,) I hate the Crow because his attacks are constant. On the hardest days he gnaws at my conscience like a coyote with a bone full of marrow, on better days, when he is not on my shoulder, he is circling above me, cawing as if his black wings are on fire.
Like a birthmark or a third nipple, he is part of me, and wherever I go it is his bag I pack first.
My mission each day is to convince myself he doesn’t matter.
His job is to peck me to death.
Welcome to the main event, OCDemon versus Persistent Backpacker. An anxiety-ridden, one man against Pure O wrestling extravaganza!
My money’s on the little guy…