Against my psychologists’ wishes, I gave my OCD a personality, an avatar in my mind. To me, my disorder is like a crow. It is my OCDemon, a malicious creature dwelling in the boiler room of my brain, dancing like a demonic Michael Flatley. He is a confident beast, a vicious extrovert strutting around the deepest corridors of my mind like a psychotic crack-toking Tony Manero. I hate the Crow because his attacks are spiteful and constant. He is intentionally cruel. Ceaseless and petty. On the hardest days he gnaws at my conscience like a coyote with a bone, 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 a special part of me, and wherever I go Crow comes too. 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, an anxiety-ridden fistfight with mental illness.
Fighting OCD every day. Shuffling, hesitating, ruminating around the world. As the crow flies…