Friday, October 30, 2015

OCD Prose


It was a typical morning, feeding the cats and eating my oatmeal. 

Typical, until I read a text from a friend reporting on her journey.

I've witnessed the overwhelming doubt that has thrown her off balance. I've witnessed her adjust to situations, adapt to the cruel yoga poses assigned by OCD.

Her text that morning was an example of her maneuvering into a new pose, a pose that worked for her. 

So I grabbed a pen and notepad and scribbled this out: 

Doubt was known to topple her,
the unsteady territory of courage revealing cracks in her armor. 

She feared the Richter Scale as fragments of hope shattered around her. 

With the dulled glimmer that remained, she mapped out blueprints to board up her soul. 

But she never let it become an earthquake. 

Beside the dictatorship of doubt lay a fighter.

She didn't need the armor. 

She was the armor. 

I later realized I also wrote it for me.



How is it that I happen to have the perfect photo for this post?

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