I’ve heard people call my form of OCD ‘Pure O’, because I struggle more with the obsessional side of the disorder, but believe me, the compulsions, both mental AND physical, have a huge influence over everything that I have ever done and everything that I will ever do. Yes, I suffer significantly more from mental repetitions rather than physical acts these days (I will analyse a thought in great detail until it feels ‘right,’ more than walking through a doorway a hundred times before I leave the house,) but the physical compulsions are still a heavy burden.
And then there’s the depression…
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 in spiked shoes. 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 slowly 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…
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