I want to feel safe.

I want my mind to be quiet.

I want to do simple things.

Like put my shoes on with my hands.

Like do my laundry without showering after.

I want to make him happy. Not sad.

I want to stop crying.

I want to stop hurting.

I want to go outside.

I want to be home.

I want space to feel normal things.

I want space to feel sad about the things I used to be sad about.

I want space to miss my mom.

I want space to feel anything other than OCD.

I want him to love me forever.

I want to be me again. I miss me.

I want to stop fighting.

I want to be safe.

I want to be home.

I want to be happy. Just happy.

That’s all I want.

Whenever I see pictures of myself now, I don’t see me. My face looks empty. It’s like I don’t exist in a physical form anymore. It explains the way I’ve been feeling lately, like I’m not really here, like I’m just a whisper of a person. A whisper of who I used to be. Like I’m screaming to be heard, and all they hear is the breeze. I always feel like I’m fighting to earn my presence, to convince myself that I deserve to be here. And that curtain that is separating me from my life, that curtain is OCD.

Sometimes I feel like I disappeared too; I lost my self when I lost her.

How many lives do we live in one lifetime?

My lives feel more disjointed than they should be. I don’t recognize my past self. I long to know her again, I envy her life, and I wonder where she went.

Have you ever wondered how much of our lives are ruled by our past and our fears from the past, and how much by the hope for our future?

We live so much in the past. I think this habit can be a dangerous one. It can prevent us from growing, from accepting who we are now. We shouldn’t forget the past, that would be dangerous too. And some nostalgia is good; of course I want to remember everyone I’ve loved and all of the wonderful moments, as well as the not-so-wonderful moments that have made me who I am. But my life has become ruled by the loss I have felt and the fear that I will feel that loss again. I expect it, making me feel as though somehow I deserve it. It means I can’t fully appreciate what I have in the moment because I am waiting for it to all slip away. Nothing feels permanent because of it. The moment my mind starts to feel my heart relax and be happy it begins to retreat, bracing itself for the next loss. To the point where now, those losses are my own fault. I’m taking away my own happiness by not allowing myself to fully feel it, by expecting the worse.

That thing I’m searching for. That thing I want most of all, that thing I’m fighting for, it’s already here. I already have it. But my own fear is preventing me from letting myself truly feel it. My fear of losing it all means I miss out. I know this. But I’m not quite sure what to do with this knowledge.

I want to recognize myself again, I want to know who I am, and I want to reconcile this life with who I used to be.

 

 

I grew up next to you

I found my strength with you

We watched each other fall

And rise

And fall again

 

Your presence holds me on this earth

And without me, you wouldn’t be you

We watched each other fall

And rise

And you had to watch me not get up again

 

So what do we do now

When our faces have changed

And our minds have gone

And I’m all that you have left

But I’m not really here

You can see right through me

 

My knees ache from trying to stand

Your arms hurt from holding me up

 

I grew up next to you

I found my strength in you

But I took it all

And now we fall

It is so frustrating and defeating to be so desperately afraid of something that no one else can see or comprehend. That’s the way that OCD exerts its power over you. By taking away everyone else’s power to make you feel safe, by taking away your trust. Your trust in others, in simple logic and in your own mind.

In fact the more they try to logically explain away your fears, the more your OCD resists. It feels diminishing; your OCD convinces you that they’re just not listening to you, that they don’t believe you and you therefore cannot trust them.

I wish others could understand the incredible amount of energy it takes for me to carry on a conversation sometimes, or to perform a simple task. When around most people I have to keep my fears to myself. I will be out in public or with a group of people and my OCD will find a trigger, but societal expectations mean that I can’t react, I can’t perform a safety behavior. So my brain must split in half.  Half of my brain is still trying to be me, to listen and respond, while the other half is controlled by the OCD, trying to think ten thousand steps ahead; how I’ll contain the contamination and what I’ll do once I get home to stop the spreading of this invisible fear. It’s exhausting. Sometimes impossible.

I’ve slowly started to build a support group of people who love me, and who have enough of an understanding of mental illness that they know there’s not always a logical explanation. I can’t explain my fear. It’s one of the most frustrating things about my OCD. I know my fear is not logical, but my OCD is strong and insistent.

She can’t understand it. But she does.

He can’t see it. But he doesn’t belittle it.

They don’t require an explanation. They accept that the fear is real and that I don’t know why, but that it doesn’t make it any less terrifying.

They begin to anticipate my fears, look for the things that only my OCD is able to see. I’m afraid that I’ll pass on my fears to them, something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. But at the same time, I wouldn’t be able to make it through the day without them.

I love them for it. For being brave enough to not understand and being ok with that. Thank you for being there without expecting what I can’t give you; an explanation.

 

 

I am someone who plays the guitar. Badly.

I am someone who loves to read.

I am someone who’s lost their mother.

I am someone who loves to learn and to study.

I am someone who grieves.

I am someone who loves someone.

I am someone who has changed.

I am someone with OCD.

I am someone with a name.

I am someone trying to figure out what that name means.

I am someone who’s trying to find their self.

I am someone.

I am me. Whoever that is.

And that’s ok.

 

 

I came home today.

But I didn’t go inside.

I didn’t go inside, not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t.

I wanted to go inside. But I sat and waited.

He let me in when he got home.

I walked upstairs.

I walked into our bedroom. Alone.

I stood there and looked out the window.

And finally the emptiness washed over me.

My eyes looked forward and saw nothing.

The tiredness stung them, but felt like nothing.

My hands hung down at my sides and felt like heavy nothingness.

Tears fell from my eyes effortlessly.

My mind felt full and empty at the same time.

The only thoughts in my head:

Why?

What next?

I don’t know how long I stood there.

I heard him come in behind me.

I found the will to move my feet.

To take off my clothes.

To get into the shower.

I don’t remember feeling the water.

I got out, and he stood there.

Silence.

He helped me get dressed.

He held me.

I could feel him trying so hard to push past my emptiness.

To be more present than my loneliness.

I love him for it.

I want it to be enough.

Now I lay here.

My hands feel like they’re in slow motion.

They feel like nothing.

My eyes still don’t see.

They hurt.

They’re too tired to stay open.

But too tired to close.

My chest aches.

In an annoying, persistent way.

Like my heart is just a little more broken than it was before.

It’s beating harder to make up the difference.

But I don’t know why it’s trying so hard.

The emptiness inside me.

This emptiness that’s filling every inch of my body.

This emptiness hurts.

I’m not really sure how nothing can hurt.

But I feel it so greatly.

This emptiness.

It makes me tired.

I’m tired.

What next.