Walking in the Shoes of OCD

Her emotions riot as her words run scared, recoiling at the weight of her fear. Emotions, like thieves of her native tongue, dotting I's and crossing T's with gasoline. Emotions, her matchstick. Taunting, ready to strike. Emotions ignite the blaze that renders words useless, absent. Language burning in the flames. Emotions, her exhibition.

Today I decided to document my stream of consciousness for the morning (from 6:30am-8:30am), with a brief snippet from last night. Here's all the fun : Laying in bed before falling asleep: I'm not tired.  I'm never going to sleep again. My body has its own rhythm but gotta do the 9 to 5 thing. Why does my mind keep flashing to scary images? Why do I feel so out of it? Why does it feel like my mind is controlling me? Am I developing schizophrenia? Laying in bed before waking up: Gotta relax my tense legs. I should get up and exercise. I eat enough junk that exercise will balance it out. But I'm so tired. I'll only have enough energy to get through the work day and then I'll be exhausted all evening. *thinking back to last nights debate* I'm glad Rob Ford isn't the laughing stock of Canada anymore. It's good Canada is maintaining a perfect image. What is perfect? There's probably many awful things I don't know about. How am I going to have ...

She will nourish them, but do not nourish her. The trend of invalidation engulfs the masses. It's a blowout sale and all emotions must go. So she became an alchemist, Cultivating empathy to heal the epidemic. Offering sips of silence to honour experiences. Leaving problems unsolved. Letting feelings simmer. For them. Not when she needs a sip. Not when empathy's a blowout sale. Not when everything must go. The deal of the day is time limited support, Running low on validation, Albeit an inventory of good intentions. So she will nourish them, but do not nourish her.

Almost a year ago, when I texted my mom that my husband and I chose Mexico as our second Caribbean destination, she replied: where in Mexico? Me: Mayan Riviera. No response. I waited. And waited. I wasn't even dot watching. Then in came her reply: you're 1200 miles away from the drug lords. Wait. Was 1200 miles an acceptable barrier when it came to drug lords? I checked the Canadian Travel Advisory website which greeted me with a "high degree of caution" warning for the overall country. Our destination was less bold as it had not been "significantly affected by violence or insecurity." So, moderately affected? And then there was El Chapo. But he wasn't spring break bound. Or was he? Regardless, I was willing to take the risk. I wasn't travelling to the Middle East. Sure, Mexico might have felt scarier than our first love, Saint Lucia, but, unless the advisory changed to "avoid all non-essential travel," I was going. My yo...

My husband and I created a little something in honour of OCD awareness and inspired from the Christmas season for Dr. Baer's website. Check it out  here

Below is the response I posted on a local radio's Facebook page regarding the Target sweater controversy. I have OCD.   I wholeheartedly embrace humour. Heck, I make jokes about my OCD. I make jokes to bring some lightness to a disease that can be so debilitating. People often say "I'm soooo OCD" because they enjoy a clean house or they enjoy having things in order. OCD is not about enjoying having things in order. If there's enjoyment involved, it's not OCD. OCD involves intense emotions like fear, guilt, regret and anxiety. People do compulsions in attempt to find relief from the torment they are experiencing. In reference to the Target sweater, I've noticed a lot of people saying things like "get over it," or " i t's the Internet. Everyone is going to be offended by something." To me it's not about being offended. It's about feeling passionately about raising awareness regarding a mental illness that has many stereo...

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 ...